TWISTED  TRAILS 


ifornia 
>nal 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

HENRY   OYEN 


BT 

HENRY   OYEN 

AUTHOR    OF  "THE    PLUNDERER,"  "BIG 
,FLAT,"  "GASTON   OLAF,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BY  GEOEGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY; 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  1921,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TWISTED    TRAILS 


2137553   ' 


TWISTED  TRAILS 


CHAPTER  I 

OOK,  m'sieu!    Them  is  a  girl*1 
"Where?" 

"On  the  point— look!" 

Stephen  Warren  leisurely  raised  his  head  from  the 
bottom  of  the  becalmed  pirogue  and  peered  beneath  the 
boom  of  the  red  sail  in  the  direction  which  the  excited 
guide  indicated.  A  lazy,  sun-drenched  day  in  November 
was  drawing  to  a  close  over  the  southern  Louisiana 
swamp. 

High  above  in  the  heavens  a  long-legged  crane  wag 
moving  majestically  toward  the  west  where  the  sunset 
was  painting  the  horizon  with  flaming  colors.  On  the 
bayou  the  wild  hyacinths  and  water  lilies  were  closing 
their  petals  against  the  coming  of  night;  and  in  the  eve- 
ning calm  the  lifeless  sail  of  the  pirogue  was  reflected  like 
a  splotch  of  blood  upon  the  sun-gilded  waters. 

Ambrose  LaFonte,  the  red-shirted  Barataria  guide, 
was  staring  at  a  girl  who,  half-hidden  in  the  rushes  and 
deepening  shadows,  was  watching  them  from  a  point 
where  the  two  bayous  forked. 

"We  are  lost,  m'sieu,"  said  he,  "and  the  night  conies 
on.  We  must  ask  that  girl  yonder  where  we  are." 

7 


8  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Warren  nodded  lazily  .  He  was  experiencing  that  state 
of  pleasant  mental  haziness  which  comes  from  being 
drugged  with  the  enervating  rays  of  Southern  sun;  for 
though  it  was  November  the  springlike  air  of  the  swamps 
was  of  a  sort  to  cause  a  young  man  on  a  vacation  to  doze 
and  dream  indolently. 

"Suit  yourself,  Ambrose,"  he  muttered  comfortably. 
"We  can't  be  badly  lost  in  a  country  where  Cajun  girls 
are  running  round." 

Ambrose  swung  his  paddle  and  drove  the  pirogue  over 
the  mirrorlike  water  toward  the  point. 

"M'sieu  I"  he  whispered  suddenly.  "That  is  no  Ca^un 
girl." 

"Cajun  or  not,  it's  all  the  same  to  a  Yankee  like  me." 

"It  is  a  grand  lady,  m'sieu." 

Lazily  Warren  pulled  back  the  sail  to  get  a  better  view. 
He  sat  up.  The  nose  of  the  pirogue  had  slid  into  the 
thick  lily  bank  guarding  the  point,  and  Stephen  saw  that 
Ambrose  was  right.  Although  the  girl  was  in  conceal- 
ment from  the  rushes  and  the  shadows  of  a  blue-gum  tree, 
it  was  obvious  that  the  face  which  peered  out  from  the 
reeds,  and  the  sun  helmet,  the  middy-blouse  and  skirt  of 
white  flannel,  and  the  great  black  and  yellow  boar  hound 
which  she  held  by  the  collar,  were  not  those  of  a  native 
of  the  bayous. 

The  dog  growled. 

"Herod!"  said  the  girl  sharply,  and  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice  Stephen  suddenly  became  conscious  that  a  week 
in  the  swamps  does  not  make  for  a  prepossessing  appear- 
ance. He  wished  lazily  that  he  had  shaved. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  9 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  frightening  the  dog,"  said  he, 
"but  I  assure  you  we  are  quite  harmless,  appearances  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding.  You  see,  we  are  lost. 
There's  really  nothing  wrong  with  us  outside  of  that. 
The  red  shirt  which  makes  Ambrose  here  look  like  a 
pirate  indicates  vanity,  not  viciousness.  This,"  he  rue- 
fully rubbed  the  growth  of  beard  on  his  jaw?:,  "represents 
nothing  worse  than  sheer  laziness.  I  don't  blame  the  dog 
but  we  are  lost,  that's  all." 

The  faintest  of  chuckles  came  floating  out  from  the 
shadows. 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  worry  you  much,"  said  the  girl. 

"Ambrose  does  the  worrying.  You  see  he's  the  guide ; 
it  hurts  his  prestige  to  admit  that  he's  lost." 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go?" 

Warren  wrinkled  his  sunburned  brows  in  an  apparent 
effort  at  deep  thought,  and  presently  looked  up  with  the 
swiftly  breaking  smile  of  one  who  has  solved  a  weighty 
problem. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  he. 

"What?" 

"Strange  but  true.  I  know  we're  lost,  because  Ambrose 
says  so;  but  what  we're  lost  from  or  where  we're  going 
I  don't  know." 

"You  must  be  badly  lost  indeed  if  you  don't  know 
where  you  are  going,"  she  retorted. 

"On  the  contrary,  how  can  one  be  lost  if  one  isn't  going 
any  place  in  particular?" 

"Isn't  a  person  lost  who  is  just  drifting  about  without 
any  destination?" 


10  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"I  suppose  so."  Warren  looked  about.  "Well,  where 
would  that  bayou  lead  us?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the 
bayou  which  came  down  from  the  north. 

"That?  Oh,  that's  Lily  Bayou,"  she  replied.  The 
shadows  from  the  gum  tree  had  deepened  now  and  she 
was  barely  visible.  "That  would  take  you  out  of  the 
swamps  into  the  Cajun  country." 

"Evangeline's  country  ?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,  but  you  won't  find  much  of  Evangeline  about  it 
now,  I  fear.  Lily  Bayou  would  take  you  back  to  civiliza- 
tion"— even  in  the  half  dusk  he  could  see  the  gleam  of  her 
teeth  as  she  flashed  a  smile  at  his  beard — "and  all  its  re- 
sponsibilities. If  you  paddle  it  for  a  day  you  will  come 
to  Lily  City,  and  to  the  great  Hartland  sawmills,  and  such 
things.  But  it's  a  hard  bayou  to  paddle,  upstream  and 
full  of  lily  drift,  as  you  see." 

"And  the  other  bayou?"  he  inquired,  pointing  to  the 
stream  that  ran  eastward.  "Where  will  that  take  us?" 

"Oh,  that's  an  easy  bayou  to  travel ;  with  the  current, 
as  you  see.  That  will  take  you  into  the  heart  of  Deep 
Swamp,  and  to  the  great  Black  Woods  where  no  one  goes, 
into  what  is  almost  forest  primeval." 

"  'This  is  the  forest  primeval,'  "  quoted  Stephen,  look- 
ing down  the  brown  current.  "And  a  fellow  has  only  to 
put  the  pirogue  in  and  let  her  drift,  and  be  happy.  And 
the  other  way  it[s  upstream,  to  houses,  people,  towns, 
Hartland's  sawmill  and,"  he  rubbed  his  beard  thought- 
fully, "the  responsibilities  of  civilization.  What  shall  I 
do?  Shall  I  drift  and  be  happy?  Or  shall  I  paddle  up- 
stream, back  to  civilization,  and — be  useful,  maybe?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  11 

"Don't  you  know  which  you  wish  to  do  ?" 

"In  the  face  of  this  pleasant  sunshine,  I  confess  I  do 
not." 

"Do  you  dread  the  struggle  upstream?" 

"This  climate  isn't  conducive  to  a  desire  for  struggling, 
is  it?" 

"Then,  don't  you  want  to  be  useful?"  she  laughed. 

"Does  any  one — in  such  sunshine?" 

She  laughed  again  and  drew  farther  back  into  the 
shadows,  pulling  the  dog  with  her. 

"Estella!"  called  a  man's  voice  from  round  the  bend. 

"Coming!"  she  replied. 

"Choose  for  me!"  said  Warren,  rising  to  his  knees  in 
the  cranky  craft.  "Suppose  I  should  choose  the  wrong 
way !  Can  you  accept  the  responsibility  ?" 

"I  deny  the  responsibility,"  was  her  instant  response. 

"Don't  you  want  to  be  useful?"  he  demanded. 

"Does  any  one — in  such  sunshine?"  she  retorted,  and 
laughing,  she  disappeared  round  the  point. 

Stephen  rose  and  stepped  out  of  the  boat  onto  the 
knees  of  an  old  cypress  stump.  From  this  elevation  he 
could,  by  rising  to  tiptoes  and  craning  his  neck,  look  over 
the  rushes  and  see  the  girl  as  she  stepped  aboard  a  racy 
little  motor  boat  which  had  been  waiting  for  her.  An 
old  man,  dignified  and  aristocratic  of  bearing,  with  snow- 
white  hair  and  Vandyke  beard,  was  seated  in  one  of  the 
cane  chairs  in  the  aft,  and  a  tall  young  man,  the  image  of 
what  ^he  older  one  must  have  been  thirty  years  before, 
was  waiting  to  help  the  girl  in. 

"What  did  Herod  bark  at?"  he  asked. 


12  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Oh,  just  a  couple  of  hunters  in  a  pirogue/'  Stephen 
heard  her  reply. 

As  she  stepped  nimbly  over  the  side  the  young  man 
was  behind  her  for  a  moment,  and  in  that  moment  Stephen 
Warren  saw  that  which  left  him  sick  and  cold  with 
shock  and  anger.  The  young  man  bent  low  over  the  girl's 
neck.  His  hands  were  poised  above  her  like  claws,  his 
under  jaw  protruding,  his  whole  attitude  that  of  a  beast 
of  prey  about  to  strike.  As  if  warned  by  some  subtle 
instinct  the  girl  turned  swiftly  round,  but  more  swiftly 
than  her  movement  the  man  had  effaced  the  mark  of  the 
beast  upon  himself,  and  was  again  the  smiling  courtier. 
The  older  man  solicitously  slipped  a  cloak  about  her 
shoulders  and  she  seated  herself  beside  him  while  the 
young  man  stepped  forward  to  the  engine.  The  boat 
glided  away  with  the  purring  of  a  powerful  motor,  and 
in  a  moment  had  swept  smoothly  round  a  bend,  and 
there  was  left  only  the  diminishing  roar  of  its  engine  to 
tell  of  its  existence.  Presently,  for  the  boat  was  a  flyer, 
that  was  gone  too ;  and  upon  the  waters  the  tristness  and 
silence  of  eventide  came  wholly  into  their  own. 

"And  what  shall  we  do  now,  m'sieu?"  muttered  Am- 
brose. 

"Camp  for  the  night,"  came  the  quick  command. 

"And  in  the  morning?" 

"That  way,"  Warren  pointed  to  the  brown  waters  of 
the  bayou  which  ran  eastward.  "Into  the  swamp  and 
the  wilderness — where  no  one  goes." 


CHAPTER  H 

"1VJ"ORNING  came  like  the  lifting  of  a  million  gossamer 
r  -*•  veils  from  the  face  of  the  bayou  country.  At  the 
call  of  the  sun's  first  rays  the  night  vanished  into  the 
heavens,  and  upon  its  dark  heels  rose  the  shreds  of  its 
pall,  the  vapor  mists,  by  night  dank  layers  of  fog,  now 
dainty  filaments  of  emerald  and  amethyst  rising  upward 
at  the  beck  of  the  dawn. 

Stephen  Warren, — Steppy  as  he  was  more  generally 
known  among  lumbermen — looked  about  him  and  found 
the  world  good  to  be  in.  He  had  in  his  pocket  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Hartland,  of  the  Hartland  Lumber  Company, 
offering  him  the  position  of  superintendent  of  the  Lily 
City  mill,  but  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  see  Mr.  Hartland. 
He  had  deposited  with  a  banker  in  New  Orleans  drafts 
for  a  good  lump  sum  representing  the  proceeds  of  his 
logging  ventures  in  the  North,  and  for  a  week  he  had 
drifted  about  in  the  sun-warmed  swamps  in  company  with 
the  red-shirted  Ambrose  LaFonte,  lazily  falling  in  love 
with  the  lovable,  lazy  country,  but  nevertheless  keeping 
an  eye  open  for  a  good  piece  of  timber.  He  looked  at 
present  like  a  prosperous,  contented  tramp,  but  it  was 
obvious  that  a  shave  would  have  revealed  a  firm  and  busi- 
nesslike jaw.  ** 

"Into  the  wilderness — where  no  one  goes !"  he  laughed 
as  they  thrust  the  pirogue  into  the  bayou  which  ran  into 

13 


14  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Deep  Swamp.  "Ambrose,  why  do  men  bother  about  fight- 
ing each  other  to  make  money?  Why  don't  they  just 
drift  round  in  the  sun  and  live?" 

"Me — I  do,"  said  LaFontc,  as  he  steered  the  little  craft 
into  the  swamp. 

"Wise  man,  Ambrose !" 

"But  this — I  do  not  like  this  drifting — to  the  Black 
Woods,"  said  the  guide  with  a  nervous  look  round. 

In  Deep  Swamp  the  darkness  of  night  still  held  sway. 
The  gentle  morning  sun  which  had  dispersed  the  darkness 
overhead  had  as  yet  been  unable  to  penetrate  the  swamp's 
roof  of  moss-draped  cypress  branches  and  reach  the  water 
beneath.  The  tops  of  the  gaunt  trees  were  purple  in  the 
sunlight,  but  the  festoons  of  gray  moss,  hanging  low  from 
the  lower  branches,  were  as  yet  in  darkness,  and  through 
their  arches  and  loops  the  morning  mists  were  oozing 
upward  in  uncannily  writhing  wisps  and  streamers. 

"You  don't  like  it,  Ambrose?" 

"This?  Yes,  this  is  all  right.  But  not  where  we  are 
going — Black  Woods.  There  are  bad  stories  about  that, 
m'sieu.  That  is  why  no  one  goes  there." 

"Fine!"  laughed  Warren.  "Tell  me  the  stories,  Am- 
brose." 

"Not  me,  m'sieu !" 

"All  right.    Want  to  turn  back?" 

"No,  m'sieu." 

"All  right.    Paddle  on." 

It  was  near  evening  when  they  reached  their  destination, 
and  upon  the  broad  lakelike  stretch  of  open  water  between 
cypress  jungle  and  the  high  ground  of  the  pine,  lay  the 


TWISTED  TRAILS  15 

long  cool  shadows  of  sunset,  scarcely  disturbed  by  the 
infinitesimal  drift  of  the  placid  current.  Between  the 
shadows  the  sun  was  rosy  upon  the  water,  tinting  the 
masses  of  purple  wild  hyacinths,  the  tiny  white  water  lilies 
and  green  lily-masses  in  their  patient,  incessant  drift 
toward  the  sea. 

Warren  halted  the  canoe  at  the  edge  of  the  cypress 
swamp  and  trained  his  glasses  upon  the  high  ground  be- 
yond the  open  water.  The  timbered  land  lay  like  a  great 
island,  an  oasis  of  solid  ground  rising  up  in  the  heart  of 
the  submerged  swamp.  Round  its  shore  stretched  a  lily 
bank  and  a  belt  of  rushes  so  dense  and  uniform  that  it 
seemed  as  if  no  craft  ever  had,  or  could  push  through  it 
to  the  shore.  Beyond,  on  higher  ground,  the  lordly  long- 
leaf  pines  reared  their  crowned  heads  royally,  serried  rank 
after  rank  of  them  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  a  veri- 
table sea  of  green  tree  crowns,  their  size  and  density  domi- 
nating the  scene  as  a  mountain  dominates  the  foothills  at 
its  base. 

"That  comes  about  as  near  being  the  forest  primeval 
as  I've  ever  seen,"  mused  Warren  with  the  glasses  to  his 
eyes.  "It's  beautiful — and  there's  a  fortune  in  it.  Why 
isn't  it  being  logged,  Ambrose?  Who  owns  it?" 

"Who  owns  it  ?"  repeated  Ambrose  in  the  shocked  whis- 
per of  one  who  had  heard  sacrilege  uttered.  "Who 
knows?  The  devil  perhaps." 

"Yes?"  said  Warren.  "Then  the  old  boy  has  got  a 
nice  little  fortune  waiting  to  be  saw-logged." 

"As  for  cutting  it — you  could  get  men  to  log  hell, 
m'sieu,  as  soon  as  log  the  Black  Woods." 


16  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"As  bad  as  that,  eh?  All  right,  Ambrose,  what  say  if 
you  raise  your  sail?" 

Ambrose  reluctantly  thrust  the  craft  out  upon  the  open 
water  and  stepped  his  mast  and  ran  up  the  red  lateen  sail. 

A  light  breeze  was  blowing  out  of  the  swamp  upon  the 
lake  and  the  little  sailing  pirogue  lifted  its  bow  from  the 
water  at  the  pull  of  the  canvas  and  with  its  red  sail  re- 
flecting upon  the  water,  went  dancing  out  over  the  sun- 
tinted  lake  toward  the  dark  woods. 

Warren  sat  in  the  stern  with  the  tiller  under  his  left 
arm  and  his  glasses  to  his  eyes.  He  could  see  but  little. 
The  darkness  within  the  woods  was  apparently  like  the 
gloom  of  night  in  which  no  spear  of  sunlight  was  to  be 
seen.  Stephen  had  the  impression  that  he  was  looking 
into  the  mouth  of  a  sepulchral  cavern  rather  than  into  a 
forest.  From  the  forest  exuded  a  silence  that  was  de- 
pressing. As  they  approached  it  the  lapping  wavelets  be- 
neath the  bow  of  the  gliding  pirogue  seemed  to  grow 
hushed ;  a  zone  of  chilly  air  seemed  to  ooze  out  from  the 
gloom,  and  in  the  bow  by  the  mast  Ambrose  shivered  dis- 
tressingly. And  then  the  silence  was  rent  by  the  curt 
note  of  a  rifle  in  the  pines.  One  shot.  Then  all  was  silent 
again. 

The  evening  breeze  played  upon  the  sun-tinted  waters 
and  upon  the  smiling,  unruffled  face  of  nature  with  no 
hint  that  anything  of  significance  had  occurred ;  but  War- 
ren and  Ambrose  knew  better.  In  the  red  lateen  sail,  a 
foot  or  so  above  where  LaFonte's  head  had  been,  there 
appeared  a  tiny  and  eloquently  sinister  round  hole. 

Warren  held  to  the  tiller  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 


TWISTED  TRAILS  17 

but  his  thick  dark  brows  were  in  a  thundercloud,  and  his 
face  was  hard,  as  he  peered  beneath  the  boom  toward 
the  pines  whence  the  bullet  had  come.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken  for  several  seconds.  Ambrose,  hearing  the 
whistle  of  the  lead  after  it  had  passed,  had  dropped  like 
one  stricken  to  the  bottom  of  the  pirogue.  There  he 
lay,  open-mouthed,  his  face  greenish  white  beneath  the 
clay-colored  skin,  staring  now  at  Stephen,  now  at  the 
hole  in  the  sail.  He  put  his  hand  to  an  ear. 

"M'sieu!"  he  gasped. 

Stephen  gave  him  only  a  quick  glance1.  "You  re  not  hit 
— only  ripped  your  ear  on  the  nail  in  the  rnast." 

The  tiller  in  his  hand  did  not  move.  Low-crouched  to 
peer  beneath  the  sail,  he  stared  straight  ahead,  and  from 
his  tightened  lips  came  half -whispered  the  inevitable 
American  term  for  the  concealed  bushwhacker.  The 
course  of  the  pirogue  had  been  set  straight  for  the  pines, 
and  the  shot  had  merely  stiffened  Warren  at  the  tiller. 
The  wind  had  not  altered  or* shifted  at  all  to  adjust  itself 
to  the  situation.  Steadily  it  held  taut  this  red  sail ;  stead- 
ily the  pirogue  tore  on  toward  the  pines. 

"Ah— Dieu!" 

The  return  of  speech  to  Ambrose's  lips  came  with  a 
note  of  prayer.  As  if  in  response  the  rifle  in  the  black 
woods  spat  again  and  a  second  hole  appeared  in  the  sail 
within  a  hand's  breadth  of  the  first.  Even  now,  though 
they  were  within  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  the  high 
ground,  there  was  no  one  in  sight.  There  was  no  sign 
of  smoke  or  of  a  rifle  barrel.  The  marksman  apparently 
was  far  inside  the  forest  line  and  well  hidden  in  the  shad- 


18  TWISTED  TRAILS 

ows  and  brush  of  the  woods.  It  was  as  if  the  dark,  for- 
bidding forest  itself  in  deadly  fashion  was  warning  them 
to  keep  off. 

"Steer  off,  steer  off!" 

Ambrose  hurled  himself  upon  the  tiller,  throwing  the 
rudder  hard  to  port.  The  pirogue  veered  and  canted, 
shuddering  as  it  came  round,  and  flew  away  on  a  port 
tack,  broadside  to  the  pines,  its  starboard  canted  high 
above  the  water.  A  third  shot  came  from  the  woods, 
the  bullet  whipping  through  the  thin  bows  of  the  craft 
close  to  the  water  line.  Ambrose  rose  up  in  terror,  his 
empty  hands  held  aloft  in  supplication  toward  the  pines. 

"We  go !    We  go !"  he  bawled 

Stephen  kicked  him  suddenly  behind  the  knees  and  he 
tumbled  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat;  and  as  the  little 
pirogue,  trembling  from  pull  of  sail  and  rudder,  fled  like 
a  frightened  bird  from  the  danger  spot,  Warren  glow- 
ered back  over  the  stern,  and  at  the  top  of  his  lungs 
repeated  his  rough  respects  to  the  bushwhacker. 

"M'sieu!"  pleaded  Ambrose,  "you  are  not  thinking  of 
going  back?" 

"Not  now." 

"Merci,  m'sieu,  merci!  Steer  straight  away.  Ah,  my 
pirogue  is  gone.  See  the  holes!" 

Warren  debated  for  a  moment. 

"Where's  the  first  place  to  find  out  who  owns  these 
woods  ?"  he  demanded. 

"M'sieu,  I  am  not  of  this  parish;  I  do  not  know." 

"All  right.  We'll  go  to  Hartland's  mill  at  Lily  City. 
They  will  know  there." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  19 

"That  girl  said  no  one  goes  to  Black  Woods,"  said 
Ambrose  ruefully,  "but  the  devil  is " 

"Wake  up!"  said  Warren,  pointing  to  the  bullet  holes 
in  sail  and  hull.  "Those  holes  were  made  by  bullets  from 
a  rifle  about  .30  caliber,  fired  by  a  regular  human  man 
who  is  a  first-class  shot." 

"We  do  not  know — we  saw  no  one." 

"But  we  do  see  the  holes,"  said  Stephen  grimly.  "Am- 
brose, it's  the  same  game  all  over,  here  as  elsewhere. 
Fight!  Play  the  tiger!  Grab  and  hold.  I'm  going 
back  there  some  day.  I  want  to  talk  with  the  fellow 
who  fired  those  shots.  Just  now  we'll  travel  along  to 
Lily  City  and  get  your  ear  fixed  up  and  learn  who  owns 
that  timber." 


CHAPTER  HI 

T  ILY  CITY  was  old,  as  Cajun  villages  are  inclined  to 
*-^  be,  but  its  age  was  like  the  age  of  one  of  the  magnolia 
trees  or  rambler  rosebushes  which  adorned  it  and  which, 
with  the  passing  of  years,  steadily  acquire  new  facets  of 
charm  to  conceal  or  nullify  any  hint  of  decrepitude.  It 
lay  in  a  crescent  along  a  single  shell-paved  street  curving 
gently  along  the  lily-banked  shores  of  a  bay  in  the  bayou, 
a  tiny  place,  mellowing  placidly  beneath  the  spreading 
branches  of  vast  and  ancient  live  oak  and  magnolia  trees ; 
and  it  was  as  contented  as  it  was  proud. 

The  cause  for  pride  was  not  obvious  at  first  glance. 
There  were,  as  a  first  impression,  two  squares  of  low 
rambling  stores,  each  with  its  wooden  awning  stretching 
over  the  stone  sidewalk  and  each  apparently  striving  to 
excel  its  neighbor  in  maintaining  the  leisurely  atmosphere 
which  prevailed.  Along  the  water  front  lay  a  careless 
clutter  of  docks  and  boat-houses,  and  from  this  point  of 
view  the  town  seemed  to  consist  mainly  of  tiny  frame 
houses  conspicuously  covered  with  the  omnipresent  white- 
wash. But  this  unfavorable  first  impression  was  because 
most  of  Lily  City  was  so  hidden  beneath  its  spreading 
arbor,  with  only  the  gray  church  steeple  piercing  and  sur- 
mounting the  dense  branches,  that  but  little  of  it  was 
visible  at  first  glance.  Back  from  the  street,  mellowed 

20 


TWISTED  TRAILS  21 

by  many  unchanging  decades  in  their  parklike  grounds, 
stood  mansions  of  a  cool,  white-pillared  dignity  calculated 
to  make  architect  or  artist  or  mere  lover  of  beauty  pause 
and  stare  with  delight — the  seignioral  homes  of  the  old 
Cajun  aristocrats  of  the  district. 

The  single  oppressively  modern  touch  here  was  to  be 
found  in  the  big  Hartland  sawmill  with  the  yellow-painted 
company  town  round  it  on  the  east  side  of  the  bayou, 
across  the  bay.  But  this  was  a  physical  phenomenon. 
Lily  City  had  accepted  it  and  such  other  modern  touches 
as  a  brick  railway  station,  and  a  trig  white  building  on 
its  bayou  front  bearing  the  legend:  Hartland  Lumber 
Company,  without  permitting  them  to  disturb  or  affect  in 
any  way  its  spirit  of  permanent  contentment  and  leisure. 
Normally  it  dozed  genially  in  its  white  sunshine  or  deep 
shade,  the  mingled  odors  of  lily  growth  and  magnolias 
diffused  over  it  like  a  faint,  pleasant  drug,  subduing  even 
the  businesslike  "whan-ng-ng !"  of  Hartland's  saws  across 
the  bayou  to  a  pleasantly  droning  hum.  As  the  spirit  of 
the  place,  so  the  spirit  of  its  people.  At  times  one  might 
hear  turbaned  old  negro  servants  on  the  water  front  bar- 
gaining with  the  fishermen  in  Cajun  French  for  lack  of 
practice  in  a  strange  tongue  called  English. 

On  the  afternoon  that  Stephen  Warren  and  Ambrose 
LaFonte  came  paddling  their  patched  pirogue  up  the  bay 
toward  the  water  front,  however,  Lily  City  was  not 
a-doze.  An  air  of  unnatural  alertness  and  tension  pre- 
vailed among  the  group  of  Cajun  citizens  who  were  gath- 
ered upon  the  wharf  to  greet  the  newcomers.  Normally 
such  a  group  would  have  lounged  at  ease  and  would  have 


22  TWISTED  TRAILS 

greeted  the  boat's  occupants,  neighbors  or  strangers 
as  they  might  be,  with  a  genial  smile  and  wave  of  the 
hand.  This  group  on  this  day  did  not  lounge.  Nor  did 
it  greet  the  approaching  pirogue  at  all.  It  bunched  closely 
together  behind  two  men  who  stood  well  to  the  forefront. 
One  of  these  men,  sallow,  hawk-nosed  and  heavily  mus- 
tached,  with  a  star  on  his  shirt  and  a  gun  on  his  hip,  was 
Pete  Mattel,  sheriff  of  the  parish.  Beside  him  stood 
Lejeune,  his  deputy,  a  preternaturally  tall  and  hollow 
youth  who  casually  nestled  a  double-barreled  shotgun  in 
the  hollow  of  his  left  arm. 

As  Stephen  steered  the  pirogue  alongside  the  dock  and 
stepped  out  he  had  the  sensation  of  having  stepped  into 
a  trap.  The  sallow  sheriff  stood  with  his  arms  akimbo, 
appraising  the  pair  of  strangers  with  the  grim  gaze  of 
the  man  catcher,  a  gaze  which  critically  condemned  them 
from  first  glance.  The  hungry  deputy  held  the  shotgun 
so  carelessly  poised  that  a  single  flip  of  the  arm  would 
have  flung  its  muzzles  to  cover  either  of  the  new  arrivals. 
It  was  an  old-fashioned  gun,  and  the  youth's  large,  brown 
hand  rested  casually  upon  the  hammers. 

"Well!"  Stephen  met  the  sheriff's  hostile  gaze  and 
checked  the  friendly  greeting  which  rose  to  his  lips. 
"What's  the  idea?  You  look  mean  enough  to  want  to 
bite  us,  friend." 

"Leave  that  gun  in  the  pirogue,"  snapped  the  sheriff. 

"Oh,  ho!  So  that's  it?  You  think  we've  been  break- 
ing the  game  laws  ?" 

"You  just  leave  that  gun  where  it  is." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  23 

"I  was  going  to.  Anything  to  be  agreeable.  But  you're 
dead  wrong,  sir.  Ambrose " 

"Stop  that !"  The  sheriff's  hand  glided  toward  his  hip. 
"Stand  apart!  Stick  up  your  hands!" 

A  silence,  complete  and  sinister,  fell  suddenly  upon  the 
scene.  The  group  froze,  each  man  motionless  in  the  at- 
titude in  which  the  movement  had  caught  him.  For  the 
newcomer  did  not  put  up  his  hands.  He  turned  slowly 
from  Ambrose  and  faced  the  sheriff.  His  hands  were 
hooked  in  his  belt  and  he  left  them  there. 

"I  won't  put  up  my  hands,"  said  he.     "I  won't  do  it." 

The  sheriff's  big  mustache  twitched.  The  shock  of 
this  unexpected  turn  of  events  left  him  at  sea. 

"If  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  explain  your  business 
with  us  we  might  get  somewhere,"  suggested  Stephen. 

"I'll  explain!"  growled  the  sheriff,  slipping  his  fingers 
round  the  butt  of  his  gun.  "You  stick  up  them  hands!" 

"You  tell  me  what  all  this  is  about." 

The  sheriff  hesitated  for  one  fatal  moment..  If  he 
drew  his  gun  and  this  stranger  still  refused  to  elevate  his 
hands  which,  by  the  cold  gleam  in  his  gray  eyes,  was  un- 
doubtedly what  he  would  do,  the  sheriff  would  have  to 
fire  or  back  down,  and  as  he  relished  neither  idea  just 
then,  he  let  the  gun  remain  in  its  holster  tentatively. 

"You're  just  about  the  height  and  build  of  a  certain 
party  I'm  looking  for,"  said  he  with  the  man  catcher's 
portentous  threat  in  his  tone. 

"My  name  is  Warren,"  said  Stephen.  "Is  that  the 
name  of  the  man  you  are  looking  for  ?" 

"Warren,  eh?"  said  the  sheriff  suspiciously.     "I  ain't 


24  TWISTED  TRAILS 

so  sure  it  is.  I  ain't  sure  you  ain't  the  party  known  round 
;here  as  the  Snake,  and  who  did  a  little  robbing  over  in 
the  oil  fields  last  night." 

"Last  night,"  said  Stephen,  "we  were  sleeping  in  that 
pirogue  .down  at  the  edge  of  Deep  Swamp." 

"You  say  you  were,  you  mean.  Bastien!"  A  half- 
grown  Cajun  boy  stepped  forth  from  the  group.  "You've 
seen  the  Snake.  Does  this  man  look  like  him?" 

"Naw,"  said  the  boy  after  a  long  vacant  stare.  "That 
Snake  is  a  hunchback.  Got  a  big  hump." 

"Look  at  his  face,  you  fool!    Does  he  look  like  him?" 

"Couldn't  see  the  Snake's  face,"  was  the  reply  after 
another  stare.  "Snake  had  a  mask  all  over  his  head." 

"How  about  his  size?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"About  the  same  size,  I  reckon." 

"That's  what  I  allowed,"  said  the  sheriff  shrewdly. 
"That  hump  could  be  put  on  same  as  the  mask.  Young 
fellow,  we  don't  know  you;  if  you  can't  explain  yourself 
I  reckon  you'd  better  come  along." 

"I  can  explain  myself  fully,"  said  Stephen.  "I  have 
letters  which  identify  me,  one  of  them  from  Mr.  Hart- 
land  who  owns  the  mill  over  there." 

Warren  had  no  time  to  produce  the  letters,  however. 
A  motor  car  which  had  slipped  out  of  the  grounds  of  one 
of  the  stately  old  mansions  which  were  Lily  City's  pride 
had  rolled  up  the  street  on  the  way  to  the  bridge  across 
the  bayou  and  was  now  slowly  passing  the  dock.  Warren 
saw  that  the  driver  was  the  tall  young  man  of  the  speed 
boat  who  had  been  guilty  of  that  gesture  behind  the  girl's 


TWISTED  TRAILS  25 

back  down  on  the  bayou  two  days  before.  The  aristo- 
cratic old  man  of  the  boat  was  in  the  rear  seat  of  the 
machine,  and  the  girl  sat  beside  him.  She  was  arrayed 
for  motoring  now,  but  even  beneath  her  green  veil  Stephen 
saw  that  her  clear,  rosy  complexion  was  not  that  of  the 
bayou  country;  he  saw  also  the  flash  of  her  eyes  as  she 
recognized  him  and  Ambrose. 

"Why,  it's  the  two  men  who  were  lost  in  the  pirogue 
down  the  bayou !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  car  stopped. 

"What's  up,  Pete?"  asked  the  driver  languidly. 

"Well,  I  ain't  overlooking  any  suspects,"  replied  the 
sheriff,  almost  slavishly.  "This  stranger  is  about  the 
Snake's  height  and  build." 

The  girl  laughed  and  leaned  forward. 

"I  see  you  took  the  way  back  to  civilization  after  all !" 
she  called  to  Stephen. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "And  I  knew  I  was  back  in  civiliza- 
tion because  the  moment  I  arrived  I  was  greeted  with  the 
invitation  to  hold  up  my  hands  and  be  arrested." 

"Estella,"  said  the  old  man  beside  her,  fingering  his 
white  Vandyke,  "do  you  know  these  men?" 

"Do  you  vouch  for  them?"  supplemented  the  driver, 
laughingly. 

The  girl  rose  up  slightly  and  looked  closely  at 
Stephen. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  sitting  back. 

"Let  them  go,  Pete !"  laughed  the  young  man,  and  the 
car  went  on.  Stephen  followed  it  with  his  eyes  while  it 
swooped  along  the  crescent  of  the  street,  while  it  left  the 


26  TWISTED  TRAILS 

street  and  swung  onto  the  bridge  at  the  head  of  the  bay, 
and  while  it  disappeared  behind  a  clump  of  live  oaks 
guarding  the  road  on  the  eastern  shore.  He  felt  well  re- 
warded for  his  trouble,  for  as  the  car  crossed  the  bridge 
the  girl  turned  and  looked  down  on  the  two  scarecrows 
from  the  swamps  for  whom  she  had  vouched  so  reck- 
lessly. He  fancied  that  she  laughed. 

"Well,  sheriff?"  said  Warren,  turning  back,  but  the 
sheriff  had  gone.  Followed  by  his  deputy,  who  now  was 
carrying  his  shotgun  by  the  barrel  over  his  shoulder,  the 
officer  of  the  law  was  moving  slowly  away.  He  halted, 
however,  when  the  car  from  which  he  had  received  such 
positive  instructions,  was  well  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

"I  ain't  satisfied,"  he  called  back.  "I'm  keeping  an  eye 
on  you  long  as  you  stay  round  here." 

"Do  you  want  to  see  my  letters,  sheriff?"  called 
Stephen. 

The  sheriff  only  glared  at  him  and  went  on  his  way. 
The  crowd  followed.  Only  one  member  of  it  remained, 
and  this  one  now  cried  out : 

"Kill  me  while  I'm  dreaming!  Don't  let  me  wake. 
Bo,  do  I  hear  you  talking  honest-to-goodness  United 
States,  or  am  I  asleep?" 

Stephen  looked  at  the  speaker  and  was  forced  to  smile. 
He  was  a  strange  figure  to  be  found  on  the  water  front 
of  a  Cajun  bayou  town.  His  body  was  that  of  a  boy 
of  sixteen,  but  his  freckled  face,  beneath  a  thatch  of  fiery 
red  hair,  was  hard  and  lined  with  the  experiences  of  a 
man.  In  addition  he  was  arrayed  in  a  worn  suit  of  loud 


TWISTED  TRAILS  27 

checks,  cut  so  tightly  that  every  line  of  his  hard,  wiry 
body  was  definitely  revealed. 

"Bo,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion, 
"Caruso  never  spilled  anything  easier  on  the  ears  than 
your  talk  is  to  me  right  now.  Mitt  me,  bo,  mitt  me.  Me 
moniker's  Terry  McGurk  and  just  now  I'm  timekeeper 
over  at  the  mill  here." 

Warren  introduced  himself  briefly. 

"Go  on,  keep  talking;  talk  some  more!"  pleaded  the 
timekeeper. 

"Who  were  those  people  in  the  car?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Miss  Reid  and  Georges  Mattel  and  his  old  man,"  was 
the  reply. 

"Does  this  Mr.  Martel  give  the  sheriff  orders  here?" 

The  youth  shot  a  swift  look  at  his  questioner. 

"The  Martels?  Say,  bo,  they're  to  this  neck  of  the 
woods  what  the  boss  of  Tammany  Hall  is  to  New  York, 
and  then  some.  Pete  Martel,  that's  the  sheriff,  is  one  of 
their  poor  relations.  They  tell  'em  all  where  to  head  in 
round  here,  the  Martels  do." 

"You  don't  belong  down  here  yourself?"  asked 
Stephen. 

"Belong  down  here?  Me  belong  down  here?  Say,  bo, 
if  I  ever  get  back  to  me  old  stamping  ground  round  Bel- 
mont  Park  it'll  take  all  the  coppers  in  New  York  to  drive 
me  away.  Soit'nly  not,  I  don't  belong  down  here !  Can't 
you  hear  I'm  talking  straight  United  States?  I'm  up 
against  it,  bo,  that's  why  I'm  here.  I'm  a  horseman,  that's 
what  I  am.  I  land  in  New  Orleans  with  a  sick  horse  and 
a  bank  roll  so  flat  you  could  run  your  hand  over  it  and 


28  TWISTED  TRAILS 

never  feel  a  bump.  I  know  that  Bomb  Carkey's  foreman 
for  the  Hartland  Company  so  I  run  over  and  brace  him, 
and  he  puts  me  on  as  timekeeper  so  I  can  pull  down 
enough  jack  to  pay  me  horse's  board  over  at  the  track. 
Talk  about  hard  luck!  If  that  Nailer  of  mine  was  in 
shape  I'd  be  living  at  the  St.  Charles  and  going  out  to 
the  track  in  a  limousine.  Oh,  well ;  cheer  up,  Terry ;  some 
day  they  got  to  run  for  you." 

Warren  asked  for  Mr.  Hartland. 

"Who — the  Main  Squeeze?  Say,  what  would  he  be 
doing  here  this  P.M.?  Don't  you  know  it's  opening1  day 
over  at  Jefferson  Park  to-morrow?  That's  where  every- 
body's gone  who  can  get  away.  I'm  going  myself  on  the 
limited  to-night.  Carkey's  over  there  already.  Mr.  Hart- 
land  spends  most  of  his  time  round  the  office  in  New 
Orleans  anyhow.  If  you  want  to  see  him  you'd  better 
breeze  over  there." 

"Is  there  a  doctor  here?"  asked  Stephen.  "Ambrose 
had  a  little  accident  to  his  ear." 

"But  it  is  nothing,  m'sieu!"  protested  Ambrose.  "A 
scratch — what  is  that?" 

"I  know,"  replied  his  employer,  "but  I  wouldn't  feel 
right  letting  you  start  for  home  without  having  it  tended 
to." 

"But  to  spend  good  money  for  a  scratch!"  muttered 
the  canny  Cajun. 

"They  soit'nly  do  hate  to  let  go  of  money,  these  birds 
down  here,"  volunteered  young  McGurk.  "They  ain't 
strong  for  hustling  round  to  get  it,  but  if  they've  got  it — 


TWISTED  TRAILS  29 

wow!  Old  Doc  Thibodeaux's  got  'em  educated  though. 
If  they  try  to  stall  him  there's  something  doing."  - 

"Then  there  is  a  doctor  here?" 

"Is  there  a  doctor  here?"  repeated  McGurk.  "Bo, 
there's  one  of  the  doctorest  doctors  here  you  ever  saw 
dish  out  a  pill.  And  a  card,  believe  me !  Been  a  soldier 
and  a  pill  shark  all  over  the  world,  and  now  he's  down 
here  sewing  up  the  dinges  when  they  get  cut  in  the  mill 
and  dishing  out  dope  for  the  Cajuns.  And  there  with 
the  conversation!  Who,  me?  Well,  mebbe  I  am,  bo, 
mebbe  I  am.  But  can  you  blame  me,  bo,  when  I  get  a 
chance  to  talk  to  some  one  who  uses  the  same  language  ? 
Come  on,  let's  hike  up  to  Doc  Thibodeaux's  and  grab  an 
earful  of  real  talk  while  your  Cajun  gets  his  ear  sewed 
up.  The  doc  lives  in  the  old  place  under  those  big  trees. 
He's  Miss  Reid's  uncle." 


CHAPTER  IV 


'  |SHE  house  toward  which  Terry  energetically  led  the 
way  was  a  small  cottagelike  affair  so  smothered  be- 
neath the  branches  of  live  oak  and  magnolia  trees  as  to 
be  barely  visible  from  the  road.  A  path  led  through 
the  picket  fence  between  two  rows  of  oaks  to  a  screened 
gallery  running  along  the  front  of  the  house,  and  as  they 
turned  in  Stephen  paused  in  amazement.  The  garden 
about  the  house  was  a  solid,  odorous  sea  of  rosebushes. 
They  grew  in  a  profusion  that  would  have  been  incredible 
in  any  other  soil  and  climate.  They  crowded  about  the 
walls  of  the  house,  about  the  stables  in  the  rear.  The 
mosquito  screen  of  the  gallery  was  fairly  covered  with 
vines  of  the  rambler  varieties,  and  there  was  such  an 
abundance  of  kinds  that  in  spite  of  .the  season  flowers 
were  plentiful. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it,  eh?"  whispered  Terry, 
with  the  proprietary  pride  of  a  guide  who  displays  a  scene 
that  makes  an  impression.  "Can  you  imagine  it  —  in  No- 
vember? Come  on." 

The  screen  door  of  the  gallery  was  open  and  he  led  the 
way  in  on  tiptoe.  "Dr.  Armand  Thibodeaux,  Office," 
read  the  sign  on  another  door  opening  into  the  house  and 
Terry  whispered  : 

"Take  a  peek  inside." 

30 


TWISTED  TRAILS  31 

Stephen  looked  into  the  room  and  saw  first  of  all  the 
white  top  of  the  large,  closely  cropped  head  of  a  man 
reclining  comfortably  in  a  canvas  deck  chair.  The  man's 
back  was  toward  the  door,  and  his  gaze  was  apparently 
riveted  on  a  hideous  gargoyle  which  leered  down  from 
its  lofty  pedestal  on  the  opposite  wall.  But  for  the 
presence  of  the  white  head  in  the  deck  chair  Stephen 
realized  that  he  would  have  been  attracted  by  the  gar- 
goyle first  of  all.  It  was  horribly  vivid,  two  feet  or 
more  high,  and  carved  out  of  some  dense  black  wood 
by  a  master  craftsman.  Its  position,  on  a  tall  white 
pedestal,  was  strategic.  From  there  its  hideous  leer 
greeted  one  the  moment  the  threshold  was  passed.  From 
its  pedestal  the  Thing  looked  down  on  everything  in  the 
room — looked  down  upon  and  sneered  contemptuously 
opon  every  one  and  everything  with  a  sneer  that  seemed 
to  make  it  offensively  alive. 

Terry  grinned  impudently  back  at  the  gargoyle;  Am- 
brose shuddered  and  crossed  himself  surreptitiously; 
Stephen  turned  his  attention  to  the  large  white-cropped 
head.  The  owner  of  the  head  was  mostly  hidden  in 
the  chair,  but  it  was  apparent  that  he  was  small  of  body 
and  almost  mahogany  colored  of  complexion  from  ex- 
posure to  the  elements.  A  precise  military  mustache  and 
tiny  goatee,  both  as  snow  white  as  the  closely  cropped 
hair,  adorned  the  dark  countenance.  Apparently  he  was 
so  deeply  in  communion  with  the  ugly  figure  on  the  wall 
that  he  was  unconscious  of  the  arrival  of  the  visitors. 

Between  his  teeth  he  held  a  long  bamboo  cigarette 
holder  containing  a  phenomenally  long  brown  cigarette, 


82  TWISTED  TRAILS 

but  he  did  not  smoke  in  the  accepted  fashion ;  he  blew  deli- 
cately through  the  holder  to  keep  the  tobacco  burning, 
and  the  faint,  snaky  streams  of  pungent  smoke  rose  lan- 
guidly upward,  like  incense  burned  to  the  leering  figure 
that  sneered  down  upon  it  all.  By  no  word  or  sign  had 
the  man  indicated  that  he  heard  his  callers  arrive.  Yet 
suddenly  he  burst  forth  without  moving* 

"No,  no !  I  am  occupied.  Do  you  not  see  I  am  occu- 
pied?" 

Steppy  looked  carefully  at  the  little  man,  fearing  that 
some  detail  of  the  doctor's  occupation  had  escaped 
him,  but  as  far  as  he  could  see  he  had  not  moved.  He 
lay  stretched  out  at  leisure  in  the  long  chair,  presently 
blowing  another  thin  stream  of  smoke  into  the  air,  en- 
tirely idle  if  ever  a  man  was  idle. 

"Because  I  am  not  doing  something  with  my  hands 
you  think  I  am  not  occupied,"  said  he  quietly. 

Warren  started.  The  doctor's  back  was  turned  toward 
him  so  the  latter  could  not  see  hirn,  yet  that  was  just 
what  Steppy  had  been  thinking  at  the  moment. 

"What  an  ass  is  man!"  continued  the  doctor  confiden- 
tially to  the  gargoyle.  "He  finds  a  virtue  in  skittering 
about,  doing  things  with  his  hands.  The  water  bug 
skitters,  and  the  monkey  has  hands.  Cannot  you  see  I  am 
busy  ?  I  am  consulting  my  honest  friend,  Solomon,  about 
the  Snake.  Go  away." 

"There's  a  guy  here  got  his  ear  ripped  open,  doc,"  sug- 
gested Terry. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  doctor  without  moving. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  33 

"What's  your  moniker — your  name?  Tell  him  who 
you  are,"  whispered  Terry. 

"Ambrose  LaFonte,  m'sieu,"  said  the  Cajun  timidly. 

"LaFonte?  LaFonte?  There  are  no  LaFonte's  in  this 
parish." 

"I  come  from  Barataria  Bay." 

"You  should  have  stayed  there — and  netted  shrimps," 
was  the  instant  response.  "They  are  very  good,  Bara- 
taria shrimps  a  la  Creole.  So  are  gumbo  de  crevisse  and 
fricassee  champignon.  What  are  you  doing  over  here, 
LaFonte?" 

"I  come  with  M'sieu'  Warren " 

"Yankee.    Bunker  Hill.    Goon." 

"He  want  to  make  the  big  pirogue  trip  through  the 
swamp.  I  come  with  him.  Do  not  be  'fraid,  m'sieu';  he 
pay  you " 

The  deck  chair  was  suddenly  convulsed.  A  rift  ap- 
peared in  the  cloud  of  smoke.  The  small,  trig,  military 
figure  of  Doctor  Armand  Thibodeaux  landed  in  one  bound 
before  the  three  visitors,  his  stubby  white  hair  seeming 
to  bristle  with  anger. 

1  'Do  not  be  afraid,  he  will  pay  you !'  Is  that  what  you 
said,  LaFonte  ?"  he  thundered  with  a  pyrotechnical  display 
of  Gallic  gestures.  He  came  close  to  the  big  Cajun, 
his  eyes  flashing  behind  their  thick  glasses,  and  shook  a 
long  brown  finger  beneath  his  nose.  "Say  that 
again " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Above  the  head  of  the  Cajun  he 
saw  Warren  and  he  got  no  further.  Steppy  tried  to 
smother  the  grin  on  his  face,  failed  completely,  and  re- 


34  TWISTED  TRAILS 

turned  the  doctor's  stare  frankly,  grinning  his  widest  the 
while.  The  doctor's  belligerent  expression  seemed  to  van- 
ish and  gave  way  to  the  expression  of  the  student  inter- 
ested in  the  scrutiny  of  a  rare  specimen.  He  thrust 
Ambrose  to  one  side  without  moving  his  gaze  and  came 
close  up  to  Steppy  and  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"My  name's  Warren,"  said  Steppy. 

The  doctor  continued  his  scrutiny  a  moment  longer, 
toying  slowly  with  the  tiny,  white  goatee  on  his  square, 
brown  chin. 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  snapped  and  turned 
to  his  patient. 

"What  did  this  ?"  he  asked,  when  he  had  examined  the 
torn  ear.  "A  nail  ?  Were  you  trying  to  drive  a  nail  into 
your  thick  head,  LaFonte?  It  bent,  did  it  not?  Terry, 
what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"Bent  the  nail — bent  the  nail!"  chortled  Terry. 
"You're  there,  doc,  you're  there!  That's  better'n  'solid 
ivory'!" 

"Out !"  cried  Doctor  Thibodeaux.  .  "Oh,  you  were  not 
trying  to  drive  a  nail  into  your  head,  LaFonte?  Then 
perhaps  you  were  trying  to  hang  yourself  upon  a  nail? 
A  nail  in  the  ear;  it  is  a  strange  place  for  a  nail,  you  must 
admit.  Sit  down." 

"It  was  in  the  bottom  of  the  mast  of  my  pirogue,  doc- 
tor," said  Ambrose. 

"Then  how  did  it  get  into  your  ear,  my  poor  LaFonte?" 

"I — I  put  the  ear  against  it,  m'sieu." 

"So — still,  still!  It  burns?  Of  course.  So  you  put 
your  ear  against  the  nail  in  the  bottom  of  the  mast  in 


TWISTED  TRAILS  35 

your  pirogue?  A  strange  place  for  an  ear,  LaFonte. 
Come,  my  son,"  he  continued  with  a  change  of  manner, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  guide's  shoulder  in  paternal  fash- 
ion, "you  must  not  mind  if  I  jest  a  little.  You  are  a 
good  Cajun,  and  so  am  I.  If  I  have  hurt  your  pride,  I 
beg  a  thousand  pardons.  You  must  forgive  an  old  man 
his  fun." 

"It  is  I  who  should  beg  pardon  for  troubling  you, 
m'sieu  doctor,"  replied  LaFonte.  "A  cut  in  the  ear,  what 
is  that?  But,  M'sieu  Warren  insisted  we  must  see  a 
doctor.  He  will  see,  he  says,  that  he  send  me  home  as 
good  as  he  found  me." 

"It  is  the  Yankee  way,  LaFonte,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
way,"  chuckled  the  doctor,  busy  at  his  work.  "Knock  a 
man  down,  kick  in  his  ribs,  call  the  Red  Cross." 

"Pardon,  doctor,  not  M'sieu  Warren " 

"All  alike.  Every  one  of  them.  Do  not  contradict. 
They  love  to  help — after  they  have  whipped.  Sit  still!" 

"It  was  an  accident,  m'sieu,"  protested  Ambrose.  "I 
threw  myself  down  blindly — the  bullet  was  so  close." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  paused  with  the  swab  of  iodine 
held  daintily  between  thumb  and  forefinger. 

"Bullet?"  said  he,  his  eyes  questing  Warren. 

"We  were  sailing  past  Black  Woods,  doctor,  down 
there  in  Deep  Swamp,"  explained  Steppy,  "and  somebody 
took  a  couple  of  shots  at  the  pirogue." 

"Oh !  A  couple  shots.  Casually.  It  is  a  common  ex- 
perience to  you,  then?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't  say  common,"  replied  Warren.  "Fact 
is,  I  wanted  to  stick  round  and  see  how  about  it,  but 


36  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Ambrose  is  prejudiced  and  superstitious  against  having 
anything  at  all  to  do  with  Black  Woods." 

"And  you,  my  young  Yankee,  you  have  no  such  preju- 
dices or  superstitions  yourself?" 

"I  haven't  about  Black  Woods,  at  least.  It's  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  pine  forests  I've  ever  seen." 

"Ah!    Beautiful,  is  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  concluded  Warren  practically,  "and  whoever 
logs  it  ought  to  clean  up  a  nice  piece  of  money  if  he  knows 
the  game.  I'm  down  here  in  that  line,  doctor,"  he  added. 
"Do  you  know  who  owns  it?" 

"Pierre  Martel,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  to  his  work. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  if  he  would  sell?" 

"The  Martels?  For  ready  money  they  would  sell  their 
souls — if  they  had  any.  Now  that  is  all  I  have  to  say 
about  that." 

He  turned  all  his  attention  to  the  task  of  bandaging 
Ambrose's  ears,  his  manner  indicating  plainly,  and  yet 
in  a  way  at  which  no  one  could  take  offense,  that  the  con- 
versation was  over.  His  thin,  skillful  hands  flew  about 
with  the  swiftness  and  precision  of  long  practice,  and 
presently  he  fastened  the  end  of  the  bandage  in  position, 
slapped  Ambrose  on  the  back  and  said: 

"Go  home,  LaFonte;  your  wife  will  be  lonesome.  I 
know  the  ways  of  good  Cajun  wives ;  they  are  very  af- 
fectionate. Get  out — out,  out !" 

"Merci " 

"Out — out — out!"  The  doctor  flung  himself  into  his 
deck  chair,  his  back  to  the  door,  and  resumed  his  com- 
munion with  the  black  monkeylike  figure  on  the  wall.  "I 


TWISTED  TRAILS  3T 

am  occupied.  By  all  the  devils  of  civilization!  Cannot 
you  see  I  am  occupied?  The  fee  is  three  dollars." 

"Ain't  he  a  card,  bo,  ain't  he?"  demanded  young 
McGurk,  as  they  walked  back  toward  the  office.  "What 
d'you  know  about  a  bird  like  that,  eh?" 

Stephen  replied  carelessly,  his  mind  busy  with  a  quite 
different  matter.  The  tract  of  pine  locally  known  as 
Black  Woods  had  not  been  gobbled  up  by  the  Hartland 
Company  or  by  any  other  corporation,  but  was  still  in 
the  hands  of  private  ownership.  This  meant  that  it  could 
be  bought.  He  considered  the  fact  that  it  was  strange 
that  no  lumber  company  had  purchased  the  tract,  but  he 
did  not  let  this  deter  him  in  the  least.  The  tract  was  well 
down  in  the  Deep  Swamp  and  he  had  seen  enough  of  the 
Cajun  country  to  know  how  effective  might  be  a  barrier 
of  fear  and  superstition  such  as  had  been  thrown  round 
Black  Woods.  Outside  timber  cruisers  had  probably  seen 
the  woods,  but — he  wondered  if  they,  too,  had  been 
greeted  by  some  first-class  shooting  by  a  hidden  marks- 
man? If  so,  the  reason  for  the  tract  remaining  untouched 
was  easily  explained. 

The  fact  that  he  and  Ambrose  had  been  so  effectively 
warned  away  from  the  timber  did  not  trouble  him  now. 
That  was  an  incident.  Black  Woods  was  in  private  hands 
— that  was  the  all-important  fact.  In  the  trees  of  Black 
Woods  he  saw  the  way  to  a  fortune. 

"You  say  that  Mr.  Pierre  Martel  has  gone  over  to  the 
races?"  he  asked  as  he  followed  Terry  toward  the  mill 
office.  "Do  you  know  when  he  will  be  back?" 

"No,"  replied  Terry,  haughtily  flicking  an  imaginary 


38  TWISTED  TRAILS 

speck  of  dust  from  an  imaginary  glove,  "Mr.  Pierre 
Martel  didn't  stop  and  wise  me  up  about  that,  but  I'll  see 
him  over't  the  track  to-morrow  and  ask  him.  But  there's 
Octo  Landry,  the  bookkeeper,  quitting  work,  and  Octo's 
sort  of  nephew  to  the  old  man  and  he  may  know.  Hey, 
Octo,"  he  shouted  to  a  slightly  built  Cajun  youth  who  was 
leaving  the  office,  "how  long  is  Old  Man  Martel  going  to 
stay  over  at  New  Orleans?" 

The  clerk  glanced  contemptuously  at  Terry,  but  paused 
as  he  saw  Stephen. 

"Have  you  business  with  Mr.  Martel,  Senior,  Mr. 
McGurk?"  he  asked. 

"Aw,  can  it,  Octo,  can  it!"  cried  Terry.  "You  needn't 
pull  that  up-stage  stuff  on  me.  I  got  your  number;  I 
know  when  it  comes  down  to  cases  you're  one  good-  old 
scout.  How  'bout  it?  When  does  the  Old  Duke  of  Lily 
City  expect  to  be  back?" 

"I  am  not  familiar  with  Mr.  Martel,  Senior's  expec- 
tations, McGurk,"  was  the  dignified  reply. 

"That's  a  little  better.  Don't  mister  me  again,  Octo, 
old  scout,  unless  you  want  to  see  some  fireworks." 

"I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Martel  on  business,"  interrupted 
Stephen. 

"He  has  gone  to  the  races,"  replied  the  bookkeeper  cour- 
teously. "It  is  uncertain  when  he  will  return.  If  there 
is  anything  I  could  do " 

"Thank  you  very  much,  but  it's  something  I  have  to  see 
Mr.  Martel  personally  about." 

"It  is  too  bad  he  is  not  here.  I  could  telephone  over 
to-morrow  morning.  He  stops  at  the  St.  Charles." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  89 

"Thanks.  That  will  do,"  replied  Stephen.  "Thank  you 
very  much." 

Landry  bowed;  Stephen  bowed;  Terry  bowed. 

"Can  you  beat  'em  ?"  demanded  the  latter  as  he  watched 
the  bookkeeper  walk  proudly  away.  "I  suspect  I'll  have 
to  pin  one  on  that  bird's  chin  some  day  just  to  make  him 
human.  Well,  I  wouldn't  care  much  for  his  job,  handling 
the  money  here,  with  the  Snake  floating  round  and  pulling 
his  stunts.  Say,  bo,  I'm  going  to  beat  it  to  New  Orleans 
on  the  next  train  to-night.  How  'bout  you?  You  know 
the  old  saying — when  in  rum  do  as  the  rummies,  do. 
Come  on,  bo,  better  follow  the  crowd  and  go  to  the 


CHAPTER  V 

TT  was  opening  day  of   the  racing  season  at  New 
Orleans,  the  day  to  which  thousands  looked  forward 
for  the  thrill  of  the  stirring  cry:  "They're  off!" 

Apparently  Nature  approved  of  the  sport,  for  the  day 
was  in  complete  accorji  with  the  occasion.  The  sun  shone 
like  June.  A  breeze  which  had  been  born  in  Yucatan  and 
nurtured  by  the  Gulf,  lazied  its  way  over  the  city. 
It  was  a  soothing  breeze,  a  lulling  one.  It  whispered  a 
fib,  but  the  fib  was  easy  to  hear.  It  whispered  that  winter 
and  care  did  not  exist,  that  there  was  only  spring  and 
pleasure ;  that  there  never  would  be  any  season  but  spring. 

The  breeze  moved  languorously  over  and  through  the 
moist,  devious  ways  of  the  Old  French  Quarter,  seeping 
dreamily  into  old  courtyards  long  since  abandoned  to 
mold  and  the  odor  of  mold,  to  ancient,  indigent  mammies, 
to  the  ghosts  of  tender,  dead  loves.  It  crossed  Canal 
Street  swiftly,  rather  offended  at  the  Yankeelike  bustle 
and  modernity  of  that  great  business  thoroughfare,  and 
went  a-search  for  congenial  scenes  and  plaisance. 

It  left  the  city  behind  and  reached  the  race  track  as 
the  first  early  railbirds  were  passing  through  the  turn- 
stiles, and  there  it  found  a  congenial  atmosphere,  so  it 
lingered  and  stayed  for  the  races.  It  swept  the  manes 
of  the  thoroughbreds  and  made  them  whinny,  touched 

40 


TWISTED  TRAILS  41 

the  nostrils  of  gaunt  old  timber  toppers  loosening  up  for 
the  long,  rough  steeplechase,  stroked  the  sleek  coats  of 
the  rollicking  two-year-olds  prancing  about  with  stable 
boys  on  their  backs,  and  it  seeped  into  the  clubhouse  pa- 
vilion, danced  vagabondishly  down  a  row  of  seats  next  to 
the  rail  and  rustled  the  program  in  Stephen  Warren's 
sun-browned  hands. 

Stephen  had  accompanied  Terry  McGurk  to  New 
Orleans  and  had  tried  in  vain  to  find  Pierre  Mattel.  He 
had  met  Mr.  Hartland,  a  stocky,  good-humored  man  of 
fifty,  who  had  immediately  offered  Stephen  a  job. 
Stephen  had  requested  two  days  for  a  decision.  In  those 
two  days  he  expected  to  learn  if  he  had  a  chance  to  get 
hold  of  the  timber  of  Black  Woods.  He  was  at  the  race 
track  for  that  purpose,  as  he  had  been  informed  that  Mr. 
Martel,  Senior,  would  appear  there  that  afternoon  without 
fail. 

Warren  knew  horses  and  therefore  he  loved  horses  for 
their  own  sake.  Mainly  he  knew  working  horses,  the 
great  clumsy  patient  i6oo-pound  animals  of  the  logging 
woods,  and  the  smaller  work  beasts  of  farms.  But  the 
thoroughbred  is  king;  he  is  to  work  breed  what  a  prince 
of  the  blood  is  to  his  strong  peasant  subjects.  Warren 
was  out  early  to  feast  his  eyes  on  the  perfection  of  horse 
flesh,  the  dainty,  fiery-eyed  gallopers,  which,  playing  with 
the  stable  boys  on  their  backs,  came  cavorting,  dancing, 
stepping  sidewise,  past  the  stand.  A  long-legged  young 
bay  colt,  a  baby  racer  by  his  lines,  was  fox-trotting 
leisurely  toward  the  paddock  and  Warren  tried  to  pick 
him  out  on  the  program. 


42  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"That's  Nailer,"  said  some  one  near  by.  "Number  7 
in  the  third  race.  Don't  play  him.  It's  a  full  mile,  and 
that  baby  ain't  in  shape  to  go  a  furlong.  Martel  is  play- 
ing his  horse,  The  Hammer,  to  win.  The  tip  is  he  ain't 
quite  ready  either.  Here's  The  Hammer  now — the  big 
black." 

A  pair  of  racers,  one  remarkable  for  his  size  and  the 
blackness  of  his  coat  and  the  redness  of  his  fiercely  dis- 
tended nostrils,  swept  past  on  their  way  to  the  paddock. 
As  if  in  answer  to  a  challenge  the  bay  called  Nailer 
reared,  tossed  his  head,  and  in  spite  of  his  rider,  danced 
away  in  vain  pursuit.  A  curt  snatch  of  laughter  from  the 
gangway  leading  toward  the  betting  ring  attracted  War- 
ren's attention.  It  attracted  the  attention  of  others, 
women  as  well  as  men. 

"Georges  Martel,  the  big  plunger/'  whispered  a  woman 
behind  Steppy.  "Owns  The  Hammer,  you  know." 

"Some  man!"  whispered  her  companion. 

Warren  had  risen  to  go  to  the  paddock  to  watch  the 
horses  at  closer  range  and  presently  he  found  himself 
following  in  Mattel's  wake.  The  latter  apparently  was 
well  known.  As  he  leisurely  made  his  way  toward  the 
betting  pavilion  behind  the  grand  stand  his  passage  drew 
an  occasional  greeting,  an  occasional  look  and  question. 
Women  in  particular  looked  at  him,  his  tall  figure  and 
handsome  features  attracting  their  attention  even  in  the 
hurly-burly  of  the  moment.  At  times  he  paused  and 
bowed,  spoke  a  word,  shook  hands,  passed  on.  Steppy 
found  no  difficulty  in  keeping  him  in  view. 

In  the  betting  pavilion  Mattel's  reception  was  peculiar. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  43 

Several  bookmakers  turned  their  back  when  they  saw 
him  coming;  all  seemed  to  know  him.  He  wrote  a  ticket 
and  presented  it  to  the  leading  bookmaker  at  the  meet, 
and  passed  on  toward  the  paddock  without  troubling  to 
note  how  the  layer  received  the  bet. 

"Here,  Mr.  Martel!"  called  the  bookmaker  excitedly 
as  he  read  the  figures  on  the  ticket. 

"Well,  Levy  ?"    Martel  paused  but  did  not  turn  round. 

"That's  a  whale  of  a  big  bet,  Martel — if  you  lose.  I 
ain't  taking  markers  this  year." 

Martel  carelessly  drew  a  wallet  from  an  inner  pocket 
and  displayed  a  wad  of  yellow  bank  notes. 

"Oh!  All  right."  The  bookmaker  fell  back  respect- 
fully and  Martel  passed  on  without  having  looked  at  him. 

In  the  jam  of  the  paddock  Steppy  lost  sight  of  his  man. 
The  crowd  was  shifting  and  milling  about  the  horses  that 
were  being  led  in,  and  Steppy,  caught  in  the  confusion, 
drifted  carelessly  with  the  excited  throng  down  the  length 
of  the  stalls.  A  shift  in  interest,  a  new  horse  being  led 
out  into  the  paddock,  and  the  crowd  flowed  back  like 
quicksilver.  Stephen  was  about  to  drift  with  it,  but  from 
one  of  the  stalls  near  by  came  a  muffled  curse  and  the 
sound  of  a  blow. 

In  the  paddock  at  the  end  of  the  stalls  Terry  McGurk 
was  gripping  Nailer's  bridle  with  his  left  hand  while  in 
his  right  he  brandished  the  whip  with  which  he  had  just 
dealt  a  stinging  blow. 

"Don't  you  kick  my  horse  out  of  the  way,  you  big 
stiff!"  he  cried.  "Don't  you  go  trying  that!" 

The  large,  thick-set  man  whom  he  had  struck,  drew 


44  TWISTED  TRAILS 

the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  cut  lip,  leaped  forward, 
caught  the  boy  off  the  ground  and  pinned  him  like  a 
puppet  against  a  pillar. 

"I'm  Bomb  Carkey,  kid,"  he  snarled  drunkenly. 

"I  don't  care " 

The  big  man's  hand  knocked  the  helpless  boy's  head  to 
one  side. 

"Stop  it,  Bomb,  for  God's  sake!"  cried  bystanders. 
"Let  him  go." 

McGurk's  jockey  furiously  hurled  a  hammer  at  the 
big  man's  head  and  missed.  The  big  man  did  not  notice. 

"You  hit  me,  kid,"  said  he  slowly,  and  slowly  lifted  a 
fist  like  a  sledge.  "You  hit  me — Bomb  Carkey !" 

"Carkey !    For  the  love  of  Mike,  don't  hit  him !" 

The  men  were  too  far  away  to  prevent  the  blow. 
Steppy  had  clenched  his  fist  and  suddenly  found  it  resting 
upon  the  top  of  a  half -filled  sack  of  grain.  It  was  done 
in  a  flash.  As  Carkey's  fist  tautened  the  heavy  sack  flew 
through  the  air  and  struck  him  full  in  the  back.  Sixty 
pounds  of  solid  Western  oats  is  no  mean  missile  and, 
large  and  rugged  as  he  was,  Carkey  coughed,  released 
his  grip  and  fell  forward  on  hands  and  knees. 

"Beat  it  sudden  now,  son,"  warned  a  grizzled  horse- 
man. "Beat  it  before  he  gets  up;  that's  Bomb  Carkey, 
ex-heavyweight." 

"He  a  fighter?"  said  Steppy.  "He's  just  a  fine  speci- 
men of  a  bully,  that's  what  he  is!" 

"Not  on  your  life!" 

"Hitting  a  kid  like  that!" 

"He's  got  booze  in  him,  Carkey  has.    Started  last  night. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  45 

Always  makes  him  ugly.  The  nag  there  was  in  his  way 
and  he  took  a  kick  at  him.  He'd  a  kicked  a  tiger  just  the 
same.  Beat  it — hell,  it's  too  late!" 

Carkey  had  suddenly  sprung  to  his  feet,  whirling  round 
in  the  air,  throwing  his  coat  one  way,  his  hat  the  other. 

"Who  did  it?"  he  bellowed.    "Who's  looking  for  it?" 

His  eye  fell  upon  Steppy,  the  only  one  of  the  crowd  who 
did  not  give  back  before  his  menacing  glare.  His  eyes 
widened  and  closed  shrewdly,  his  lips  straightened,  grew 
thin,  and  he  sucked  his  breath  in  so  noisily  that  it  whistled. 

"Here,  kid,"  he  whistled,  tossing  a  twenty-dollar  bill 
to  the  boy  he  had  manhandled.  "Pay  the  damage.  Worth 
it.  Got  me  into  a  real  fight  at  last." 

"Beat  it,  son,  beat  it!"  pleaded  the  old  horseman,  trying 
to  thrust  Steppy  away.  "It's  Bomb  Carkey — fought  the 
champion,  you  know.  Beat  it !" 

"Naw,  you  don't !"  whistled  the  drunken  giant.  "Stand 
away  from  him  there,  you.  He  knocked  Bomb  Carkey 
down  from  behind  and  he's  got  to  explain.  Don't  be- 
devil him,  you  fools.  He  understands;  he's  got  the  eye 
of  a  fighting  man.  Throw  your  coat,  young  feller,  or  I'll 
knock  you  kicking  right  where  you  stand." 

"No,  you  won't,  Bomb!"  screamed  Terry,  picking  up 
the  hammer,  and  aiming  it  at  the  back  of  Carkey's  head. 
"I'll  cave  in  your  dome  for  you !" 

"Put  that  down,  son,"  laughed  Steppy.  "It's  all  right; 
put  it  down." 

"Do  you  see,  do  you  hear?"  growled  Carkey.  "Didn't 
I  tell  you  he  had  the  eye  of  a  fighting  man?  Up  with 


46  TWISTED  TRAILS 

your  dukes,  young  fellow,  and  leave  your  address  where 
you  want  your  body  sent." 

"Carkey,  have  some  sense,"  pleaded  onlookers.  "Beat 
it,  young  feller !  Beat  it ;  we'll  hold  him  while  you  make 
a  getaway." 

"Ah!  You  will?"  cried  Carkey.  He  crouched  like  a 
bear  for  a  spring,  his  eyes  glaring,  huge  fists  swinging. 
"You  will,  eh?  Then  look  out,  I'm " 

"Carkey!" 

The  ex-pugilist  froze  in  the  very  instant  he  was  about 
to  leap.  For  a  few  seconds  he  stood  with  his  fists  tensed 
ready  to  strike,  his  legs  bent  for  the  spring.  Then  he 
subsided;  his  eyes  went  to  the  ground. 

"All  right,"  he  said  sullenly,  then  hesitated  a  moment, 
picked  up  hat  and  coat  and  turned  away. 

In  amazement  Warren  turned  to  see  who  had  spoken. 
The  crowd,  with  a  quicksilver  change  of  interest,  was 
shifting  back  toward  the  paddock,  and  the  broad,  well- 
groomed  back  of  Georges  Mattel  was  disappearing  round 
a  corner. 


CHAPTER  VI 


XJLTARREN  found  himself  alone  with  Terry  who,  as- 
sisted by  his  jockey,  had  caught  the  bay  and  was 
soothing  him  as  one  might  soothe  a  terrified  child. 

"So,  Nailer!  Poor  old  Nailer!  Steady,  steady,  old 
boy.  Ain't  nobody  going  to  put  anything  over  on  you 
while  Terry's  round.  Easy,  old  boy,  easy.  I'm  with 
you." 

The  horse,  which  during  the  excitement  had  been  vainly 
trying  to  climb  a  ten-foot  fence,  was  in  a  bad  way.  The 
soothing  tones  of  the  boy  stopped  his  jumping,  but  the 
muscles  under  his  black  hide  played  nervously,  and  his 
fiery  thoroughbred  eyes  roved  about  in  wild  alarm. 

"So,  boy,"  said  Warren,  and  at  the  strange  voice  the 
horse  went  into  the  air,  dragging  the  boy  off  his  feet. 

"So,  boy,"  repeated  Steppy  and  came  forward  and  laid 
a  hand  on  the  slender  neck.  The  racer  started,  looked  at 
him,  blew  a  great  blast  from  his  distended  nostrils  and 
grew  still. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  said  Terry.  "That's  the  foist 
stranger  he's  let  touch  him  since  he  got  sick." 

Nailer  was  a  splendid  young  animal;  the  rampant  life 
of  the  two-year-old  thoroughbred  was  in  his  eyes.  The 
lines  of  him  showed  that  his  breeding  was  of  the  finest, 
but  his  bearing  did  not  live  up  to  his  lines.  His  coat  was 

47 


48  TWISTED  TRAILS 

a  dead,  dusty  bay  in  color  and  his  dainty  feet  shuffled  un- 
certainly as  he  moved  them.  Only  his  eye  remained  true, 
fiery,  dynamic — the  warrior  eye  of  the  thoroughbred  race 
horse. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  said  Warren.  "He 
looks  as  if  his  grain  wasn't  doing  him  much  good." 

"You  think  he's  a  mutt?"  retorted  Terry  belligerently. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  race  horses,"  replied 
Warren.  "He  looks  to  me  like  a  pretty  good  animal  in 
very  bad  rig." 

"Pretty  good !  Pretty  good!  I  suppose  Salvator  would 
have  looked  pretty  good  to  you,  eh?  Or  Roamer  or  Colin 

or Say,  bo,  Sassin  was  this  baby's  granddaddy. 

Does  that  mean  anything  to  you?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  replied  Stephen,  rubbing  the  horse's 
nose.  "Don't  hit  me;  I'm  not  kicking  him,  you  know." 

McGurk  grinned  until  his  freckled  countenance  was 
split  in  twain. 

"Gee,  bo !  That  was  some  bouquet  you  handed  Carkey. 
I — I  guess  you  saved  me  a  beatin'  all  right.  Say,  did  you 
make  the  bird  who  called  him  to  time  ?  That  was  Georges 
Martel.  Every  time  I  see  him  I  wonder  how  does  he  ever 
escape  the  movies.  All  that  guy'd  have  to  do'd  be  to 
vamp  some  Jane  through  six  reels  and  they'd  have  to  call 
out  the  reserves  to  keep  the  skoits  from  crashing  through 
the  box  office." 

"Why  in  the  world  did  Carkey  stop  at  a  single  word 
from  him?"  asked  Warren. 

"Bo,  if  I  had  a  buck  for  everything  over  there  I  don't 
know  or  understand  I'd  have  John  D.  Rockefeller  bitin' 


TWISTED  TRAILS  49 

his  nails  and  waiting-  for  me  to  come  down  and  lend  him 
jack  enough  to  keep  his  oil  carts  going.  Mattel  must 
have  something  tough  on  Bomb  Carkey,  all  right,  to  stop 
him  cold  like  that.  I  know  Bomb  Carkey ;  used  to  know 
him  when  me  stamping  ground  was  between  Belmont  Park 
and  Thoid  Avenue  and  Fourteenth,  up  in  New  Yawk.  He 
ain't  no  piker  any  way,  for  nerve  or  anything.  In  half 
an  hour  he'll  be  back  here  making  it  all  right  with  me, 
see'f  he  don't.  So,  Nailer,  poor  old  feller!  Nothing 
but  hard  luck  since  we  started  south.  First  we  get  into 
a  train  wreck  that  wrenches  his  neck  and  drives  him 
crazy,  and  then  he  gets  the  flu.  And  here  he  is  entered 
for  the  thoid  race  and  he  ain't  fit  to  go  a  furlong." 

"Do  you  own  him?" 

"Who  owns  you,  Nailer?  Listen  to  him,  old  boy! 
Who  raised  you  from  a  baby  up  there  at  Jamaica,  when 
they  were  going  to  shoot  you  because  they  thought  you'd 
put  your  shoulder  out  crashing  through  that  fence  ?  Who 
slept  in  the  stall  with  you,  and  worked  as  stable  boy  to 
get  jack  enough  to  feed  you?  He's  mine,  sir;  and  he's 
every  one  and  everything  I've  got  in  the  world.  But — 
but  he's  a  race  horse,  bo,  he's  a  stake  horse,  not  an  over- 
night purse  chaser.  And  some  day,  when  I  get  him  into 
condition  and  have  a  little  luck,  he's  going  to  prove  it. 
I  got  him  nominated  for  the  Mardi  Gras  Handicap  next 
February.  Gimme  two  months  with  him  at  a  decent 
training  place  and  I'll  beat  'em  all.  Say,  bo,  you  done  me 
a  favor,  and  I'll  slip  you  the  only  thing  I  can  in  return. 
Lay  off  this  baby  to-day.  He  can't  go  the  distance,  and 


50  TWISTED  TRAILS 

I  just  got  him  in  there  on  the  ghost  of  a  chance  of  getting 
a  piece  of  money  to  train  him  on." 

"We'll  give  that  big  black  Hammer  a  chase  though, 
Terry,"  said  the  jockey,  slapping  his  boots  with  his  whip. 
"I'll  make  the  bird  upon  him  ride." 

"For  about  half  the  distance,  Monk,"  said  Terry. 
"Then  we'll  fade  and  drop  back — poor  old  Nailer.  The 
favorite  will  beat  about  three  horses.  But  cheer  up,  Terry, 
cheer  up;  some  day  they  got  to  run  for  you." 

Warren  made  his  way  slowly  back  toward  the  club 
house.  The  park  was  rapidly  filling.  The  mellow  sun- 
shine lay  over  clubhouse,  grand  stand,  track,  infield  and 
paddock.  Trains,  street  cars  and  motors  were  pouring  a 
crowd  through  the  welcoming  gates.  It  was  like  a  sum- 
mer crowd,  for  though  the  month  was  November  the 
unusual  warmth  had  brought  out  a  throng  in  summer 
array,  summer  manners  and  gayety.  As  Warren  passed 
through  the  betting  ring  the  band  in  the  grand  stand 
poured  forth  The  Star  Spangled  Banner;  then  a  pause, 
and  to  the  accompaniment  of  laughter,  cheers  and  con- 
tagious animation,  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

A  variegated  throng  was  crowding  the  clubhouse  pa- 
vilion, an  animated  talking  throng,  the  talk  exclusively 
of  King  Horse.  There  were  horsemen  and  gambling 
men :  Kentuckians  to  whom  horse  racing  was  meat,  wine, 
bread,  tobacco  and  religion ;  and  the  inevitable  contingent 
of  gamblers  to  whom  a  race  horse  was  merely  a  counter 
on  a  sublimated  roulette  wheel.  Northern  tourists  rubbed 
shoulders  with  Spanish-speaking  South  Americans, 
courtly  dignified  horse  breeders  and  horse  lovers  were 


TWISTED  TRAILS  51 

jostled  by  hard-jawed,  curt-spoken  bookmakers  and  graft- 
ers. The  drawl  of  the  South,  soft,  lingering,  friendly, 
was  in  the  air,  and  through  it  might  be  heard  French  and 
Spanish  and  Portuguese. 

Dark-skinned  Latin  ladies,  grand  dames  from  old  plan- 
tations, graceful,  olive-skinned  Creoles,  and  the  more  ro- 
bust ladies  of  tourist  parties  from  the  North  made  up  a 
gayly  dressed  feminine  element,  with  here  and  there  one 
of  the  flashily  dressed,  over-bediamonded  and  effulgent 
ladies  of  the  tracks.  In  that  crowd,  charged  with  a  vitality 
as  keen  as  that  of  the  horses  about  to  race,  a  man  or 
woman  must  be  exceptional  to  attract  attention,  to  make 
the  crowd  pause  its  buzzing  and  observe  for  even  a  mo- 
ment, yet  at  the  moment  that  Steppy  reached  the  head  of 
the  stairs  leading  into  the  pavilion  the  portion  of  the 
crowd  nearest  the  clubhouse  was  in  that  momentary  state 
of  suspense  and  silence  which  even  at  race  tracks  occa- 
sionally stills  the  babble  and  chatter. 

Estella  Reid  had  come  out  of  the  clubhouse  escorted  by 
Pierre  Martel.  Stephen,  looking  closely,  SO.VST  a  tall,  white- 
haired  man  whose  dark  skin,  snow-white  imperial  and 
courtly  bearing  marked  him  apart  as  of  aristocratic 
lineage.  Alone,  the  old  man  would  have  been  the  focus 
of  many  eyes  in  any  crowd,  yet  now  he  was  merely  an 
appendage,  a  foil  to  the  girl  he  was  escorting. 

Romantic  Latin  blood  had  joined  with  blood  of  a 
Northern  race  in  creating  in  her  a  woman  who  to  one  ob- 
server might  appear  all  fire  and  languor,  to  another  ice 
and  strength,  so  intricately  and  so  subtly  did  two  natures 
seem  to  be  mingled  in  Estella  Reid.  Physically  she  was 


52  TWISTED  TRAILS 

taller  and  more  strongly  built  than  the  Creole  type,  and 
more  animated  and  gay  than  the  woman  of  the  North. 
Spiritually  she  seemed  at  the  moment  a  lambent  flame  of 
carefree  youth,  a  carefree  apotheosis  of  the  scene  about 
her.  She  walked  slowly  beside  her  distinguished  escort. 
Her  high-held  head  was  surmounted  by  a  girlish  mass 
of  brown  hair  upon  which  shimmered  an  impression  of 
red;  her  blue  eyes  were  girlishly  eager  under  the  stimulus 
of  the  crowd.  Yet  she  was  not  of  the  crowd.  She  was 
different.  Some  time  later,  when  she  was  not  present, 
Warren  heard  two  women  discussing  her : 

"How  was  she  dressed,  do  you  remember?" 

"No !    I  never  noticed  a  thing." 

It  was  her  usual  effect,  exercising  itself  even  upon  the 
fading,  sophisticated  women  who  in  their  hearts  hated 
her  for  her  beauty  and  youth.  It  was  expressed  by  the 
soft,  tense  whisper  of  a  Brazilian : 

"La  Louisiane !" 

The  pair  passed  to  the  front  of  the  pavilion  to  a  corner 
box  at  the  rail,  and  as  Warren's  eyes  followed  he  saw  that 
Georges  Martel  and  Mr.  Hartland  were  seated  in  the  box. 
Georges  Martel,  as  he  greeted  her,  bent  playfully  over  her 
hand  and  laughed  with  a  flash  of  white  teeth.  Warren 
was  too  far  away  to  hear  what  was  said  but  the  girl 
looked  up  suddenly,  a  flush  and  a  troubled  smile  came  upon 
her  face,  and  she  looked  away. 

The  silvery  notes  of  a  bugle  down  by  the  judge's  stand 
suddenly  stilled  the  crowd  and  swerved  its  attention  to- 
ward the  track.  Warren  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  the 
box,  for  in  the  instant  that  bugle  had  blown,  when  every- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  53 

body's  eyes  went  to  the  track,  he  had  seen  Georges  Mar- 
tel  bend  over  the  girl's  neck  as  she  leaned  over  the  rail 
to  see  the  horses,  as  he  had  bent  over  her  down  on  the 
bayou.  Martel's  face  was  congested  with  blood,  his  eyes 
protruded,  his  lips  worked  nervously,  and  his  large  white 
hands  moved  like  a  pair  of  claws.  It  was  only  for  an 
instant.  Then  he  straightened  his  tall  figure,  his  face 
calm,  indolently  assured  and  composed,  his  fingers  toying 
playfully  with  the  thin  watch  chain  across  his  vest,  as  he 
joined  in  the  scrutiny  of  the  parade  for  the  first  race  of 
the  season  and  laughingly  made  some  comment  on  the 
horses. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    TEN-THOUSAND-TONGUED   roar  shook   the 
pavilion  and  echoed  up  to  the  blue  sky  as  the 
crowd,  coming  to  its  feet,  announced  that  the  racing 
season  at  Jefferson  Park  was  opened. 

And  then  Warren  had  his  second  shock  within  a  few 
seconds.  With  the  interest  of  her  companions  suddenly 
transferred  from  her  and  concentrated  on  the  race,  the  girl 
looked  round,  and  he  saw  that  though  she  could  not  have 
seen  Mattel's  gesture  behind  her  back  some  fine  sense  of 
intuition  had  troubled  her.  Her  blue  eyes  were  calm,  but 
the  light  of  pleasure  had  gone  from  them.  They  were 
wide  and  questing,  with  the  hint  of  loneliness  in  them, 
a  hint  of  tragedy.  Instinctively  Steppy  found  himself 
leaning  toward  her,  and  in  that  instant  her  eyes  found 
his.  He  had  forgotten  himself  so  completely  that  he  was 
staring  at  her  frankly,  and  at  the  sight  of  this  she  looked 
away.  It  was  an  instinctive  movement;  Warren  would 
have  been  surprised  if  she  had  done  anything  else.  But 
she  looked  back,  and  she  smiled  a  little  as  she  recognized 
him  as  the  lost  one  on  the  bayou  and  saw  that  he  recog- 
nized her. 

For  the  moment  it  seemed  that  in  spite  of  the  great 
crowd,  or  because  of  it,  the  two  of  them  were  quite  alone. 
Out  upon  the  track  a  well-matched  field  was  swinging 

54 


TWISTED  TRAILS  55 

round  the  turn;  in  pavilion,  grand  stand  and  on  the  rail 
thousands  were  tense  with  the  thrill  of  racing;  and 
Stephen  and  the  girl  looked  only  at  one  another ;  and  then 
she  smiled  again  and  turned  to  watch  the  race. 

Warren's  countenance  promptly  took  upon  itself  the 
noncommittal  mask  of  complete  indifference  with  which 
his  breed  mask  the  tale  of  excitement,  and  though  his 
heart  leaped  distractedly  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
track  and  watched  the  finish  of  the  first  race  with  apparent 
interest.  Cheers  greeted  the  finish ;  the  favorite  had  won. 
The  crowd,  in  relief  from  the  tension,  began  milling 
round,  laughing,  chattering;  and  presently  Mr.  Hartland 
rose,  looked  round  and  saw  Stephen. 

"Hello,  Warren!"  he  called.  "Come  down  here;  got  a 
chair  for  you." 

In  a  daze  and  confusion,  though  his  countenance  was 
calm  and  composed,  Stephen  found  himself  being  intro- 
duced. The  older  Martel  greeted  him  courteously,  studied 
his  face  and  saw  nothing  but  a  good-natured  athletic  boy, 
and  grew  cordial  at  once,  while  Georges  Martel  smiled 
indolently,  the  brown  eyes  under  his  thick  lashes  keenly 
interested  but  inscrutable. 

"Miss  Reid,  Mr.  Warren." 

Warren  stammered  a  formal  acknowledgment  of  the 
introduction  but  Miss  Reid  nodded  and  smiled  mischiev- 
ously. 

"You're  not  lost  to-day,  Mr.  Warren,  are  you?" 

"Well,  no,  Miss  Reid,  not  exactly — not  as  badly  as  I 
was  lost  the  other  day." 


56  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Ah!  You  are  acquainted  with  Mr.  Warren,  Estella?" 
said  Georges  Martel. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes!  Haven't  I  spoken  of  him?  Mr.  War- 
ren of — of  Deep  Swamp.  He — he  gets  lost  there,  don't 
you,  Mr.  Warren?" 

"He  does,"  agreed  Stephen. 

"Think  of  it !"  she  said  solemnly.  "He  was  lost  in  -the 
wilds  of  our  own  bayou!" 

"Ah!  Then  it  was  you  the  sheriff  had,  Mr.  Warren?" 
interrupted  Georges.  "I  am  glad  you — didn't  turn  out 
to  be  the  Snake." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Warren,  pleasantly,  "but  it  was 
Miss  Reid  who  helped  me,  you  remember." 

"H'm,  h'm!"  said  Mr.  Hartland  promptly.  "Talking 
about  that,  have  you  made  up  your  mind  about  that  job?" 

"Not  yet,  Mr.  Hartland.  I'm  afraid  that  when  it  conies 
to  making  decisions  I'm  rather  slow." 

"That's  all  right;  you  said  to-morrow.  Stick  to  it; 
that's  business.  You're  a  business  man.  That's  why  I 
feel  sure  you  won't  turn  my  job  down!  Johnson,  my  old 
superintendent,  succumbed  to  the  climate.  Threw  up  a 
fine  job  to  be  a  bum." 

"Oh !"  Miss  Reid  interrupted  with  a  petulant  stamp  of 
the  foot.  "How  can  you  say  that,  Mr.  Hartland?  Mr. 
Johnson  fell  in  love,  really,  truly  in  love." 

"He  went  crazy  about  a  little  Cajun  girl,  if  that's  what 
you  mean,  Miss  Reid." 

"Me,  too — Ah  am  poah  lil  Cajun  gal,  M'sieu,"  she 
said,  and  Hartland  bowed  his  gray  head  contritely. 

"I  stand  corrected.    Will  you  forgive  me?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  57 

"Let  me  see — will  I  ?"  she  put  a  finger  thoughtfully  to 
her  brow.  "Yes,  Cajun  gals  are  generous.  I  forgive 
you — if  you'll  not  use  the  word  'bum'  in  describing  John- 
son's romance." 

"All  right,"  laughed  Hartland.  "Well,  Warren, 
Johnson  went — fell  in  love  with  a  little  bayou  beauty  and 
let  the  job  go  smash." 

"Quite  proper,  too,"  said  the  girl.  "He  couldn't  let 
his  business  interfere  with  his  romance,  could  he?" 

"Well,  he  didn't  at  all  events.  So  the  job  is  open. 
Lily  City  Mill  means  a  good  thing,  Warren." 

"But,  Mr.  Hartland,  perhaps  Mr.  Warren  would  fall 
in  love,  too,"  persisted  Estella. 

"Ha  ha!"  said  Georges  Martel  mirthlessly.  "Estella, 
you  do  not  understand  the  modern  business  man,  in  spite 
of  your  Northern  education.  Johnson  would  not  permit 
business  to  interfere  with  his  romance.  A  good  business 
man — a  strong  business  man — such  as  Mr.  Warren — will 
not  allow  his  romance — if  he  is  weak  enough  to  have  one 
— to  interfere  with  his  business." 

"Is  that  true,  Mr.  Hartland?" 

"I  should  hope  so!  If  I  thought  it  wasn't,  I  wouldn't 
offer  him  the  job.  Lily  City  Mill  is  too  big  a  plant  to  fool 
with.  It's  really  a  fine  thing,  Warren.  You  ought  to 
jump  at  it." 

"Is  that  what  Yankee  hustlers  do?"  asked  Estella  sol- 
emnly. 

"What's  that,  Miss  Reid?" 

"Jump.  Jump  at  it — whatever  it  is.  It  must  be  fun 
to  see  them  do  it,  isn't  it?  I've  never  seen  a  Yankee 


58  TWISTED  TRAILS 

hustler  jump.  Do  they  do  the  standing  high  jump  or  the 
running  broad?  It  would  be  very  thrilling,  I  think." 

She  flashed  a  swift,  mischievous  glance  at  Stephen  and 
saw  by  his  smile  that  he  was  enjoying  it  all  to  the  fullest, 
and  she  made  an  attempt  to  continue  solemnly,  but  his 
smile  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she  gave  vent  to  a  peal 
of  hearty  laughter. 

"I'm  rude,"  she  said  uncontritely.  "Are  you  thinking 
over  the  job  at  the  Lily  City  Mill,  Mr.  Warren?" 

"Yes." 

"Won't  that  be  nice!" 

"He  is  only  thinking  it  over,  Estella,"  said  Georgts 
Martel  softly. 

"Until  to-morrow,"  rejoined  Stephen,  smiling  upon 
Georges. 

"I  perish  with  anxiety,"  said  the  girl  calmly,  and  turned 
her  attention  to  the  track. 

"There's  the  field  for  the  third  race  coming  out,"  said 
Mr.  Hartland.  "There's  The  Hammer,  black  and  red. 
Betting  on  him,  Georges  ?" 

"Of  course.  He  has  only  to  beat  Venus  Delight,  the 
chestnut,  yellow  and  purple." 

"And  the  nice  bay  horse  in  the  lead,  with  the  pretty 
green  and  gold  colors?"  asked  Estella. 

The  men,  except  Warren,  laughed. 

"Nailer.     Owner,  Mr.  Terrence  McGurk." 

"Little  Terry  over  at  the  mill?" 

"The  same." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "I'll  root  for  him." 

"To  beat  The  Hammer,  Estella?"  purred  Georgei 


TWISTED  TRAILS  69 

"I  know  it's  too  bad,  Georges,"  she  replied,  "but  I  do  so 
love  green  and  gold  colors  1" 

"Warren,"  said  Georges,  turning  with  false  deference 
to  Stephen,  "what  is  your  opinion?" 

"No !"    Steppy  laughingly  refused  to  be  drawn  in. 

"The  Hammer'll  beat  Nailer,  but  he'll  finish  behind  the 
favorite.  He  isn't  in  shape;  that's  the  consensus,"  inter- 
posed Hartland.  "That's  my  idea,  too." 

"Ah!"  said  Georges  seriously,  with  a  lifting  of  the 
brows.  "But,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  pause,  "it  is 
highly  important  that  the  consensus  on  this  race  is  wrong." 

"Important  to  you,  you  mean,  eh?"  laughed  Hartland; 
but  Warren  had  seen  the  look  that  Georges  bestowed  upon 
the  back  of  Estella's  head  and  knew  that  was  not  what  he 
had  meant  at  alL 


CHAPTER  VHI 

>T*HEY'RE  off!" 

•"•      The  crowd  rose  again  at  the  ringing  shout,  but 
almost  instantly  there  followed  a  groan  of  dismay. 

"The  favorite's  left!    The  favorite's  left!" 

Down  at  the  starting  line  a  perfectly  aligned  field  had 
leaped  forward  at  the  drop  of  the  flag — except  one  horse. 
The  chestnut  filly  bearing  Number  One,  the  favorite, 
Venus  Delight,  had  been  caught  flat-footed.  Six  horses 
flashed  into  view  in  a  closely  crowded  bunch,  while  two 
lengths  behind  the  outwitted  jockey  upon  the  favorite, 
to  the  tune  of  imprecations  from  the  stands,  was  striving 
with  whip  and  heel  to  make  up  the  distance  he  had  lost. 

"The  Hammer  leads !    The  Hammer  leads !" 

Georges  Martel  flecked  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette 
as  the  race  swept  past  the  pavilion,  but  did  not  rise. 

"There  he  goes — The  Hammer!  He's  got  a  length 
on 'em!" 

A  sudden  hush.  Then  a  bellow  of  surprise  and  dis- 
may rose  from  the  crowd  as  the  bunch  struck  the  first 
turn. 

"Number  Seven!    Number  Seven!" 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Nailer!" 

Stephen  leaped  to  his  feet. 

60 


TWISTED  TRAILS  61 

"Nailer!"  cried  the  girl.    "Oh,  good!" 

Out  in  the  lead  by  a  good  length  The  Hammer  had 
leaped  at  the  turn,  and  as  if  at  a  signal  Nailer  had  leaped 
after  him,  eating  up  the  daylight  between  them  in  a  won- 
derful spurt,  crowding  the  black  horse's  flanks  with  his 
clean,  bay  head,  moving  up  from  flank  to  shoulder,  run- 
ning neck  to  neck  for  a  stride  or  two,  and  suddenly  show- 
ing his  nose  ahead  of  the  big  black. 

"Nailer!    Wat  d'you  know!    Watch  him  run!" 

Nailer  was  running  with  a  long  easy  stride  that  was 
the  perfection  of  thoroughbred  running,  running  at  top 
speed  as  easily  and  naturally  as  an  eagle  swoops  at  its 
fastest.  The  boy  on  his  back  sat  immobile,  crouched  and 
guiding  only,  knowing  the  splendid  animal  beneath  was 
running  with  every  ounce  of  speed  in  his  sturdy  heart. 
So  perfect  was  the  running  form  of  the  bay  horse  that 
though  the  speed  with  which  he  swung  round  the  turn 
caused  the  wise  ones  on  the  rail  to  look  at  one  another, 
there  was  no  appearance  of  effort  or  hurry  in  his  move- 
ments. Beneath  his  bay  hide  the  long  muscles  moved  with 
the  smoothness  of  swift  slipping  water,  each  muscle  well- 
ing and  relaying  in  accord  with  the  whole,  the  whole  tes- 
tifying eloquently  that  here  was  an  animal  bred  to  race, 
to  run  its  best  at  highest  speed  though  the  effort  dropped 
it  dead  on  the  track. 

The  spirit  of  the  race  seemed  to  have  transformed  the 
sluggish  animal  that  Steppy  had  seen  in  the  paddock. 
The  flaming  spirit  of  him  seemed  to  flare  out  and  shine 
through  the  dull  color  of  his  coat.  As  if  his  racing  heart 
had  surmounted  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  and  bone  his 


62  TWISTED  TRAILS 

dainty  feet,  which  had  moved  uncertainly  in  the  paddock, 
now  seemed  to  spurn  the  earth,  gripping  it  only  with  a  toe 
hold  for  the  drive  forward. 

"Nailer!    Nailer!" 

A  half  length  of  the  bay  showed  ahead  of  the  out- 
stretched black  nose  of  The  Hammer  as  they  whirled  into 
the  straightaway  of  the  back  stretch  and  between  them 
and  the  rest  of  the  field  a  full  two  lengths  of  daylight  was 
visible.  The  favorite  was  forgotten.  All  interest  cen- 
tered upon  the  terrific  struggle  between  the  two  leaders. 
With  the  long  straightaway  before  his  eyes  Nailer  seemed 
to  let  out  another  link  in  his  speed.  The  boy  upon  The 
Hammer  was  using  his  whip  right  and  left. 

Georges  Martel  rose  leisurely  to  his  feet  and  placed  his 
glasses  to  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  he  runs  very  prettily,  Nailer,  and  should,"  he 
said  calmly.  "He  is  bred  in  the  same  blood  as  The  Ham- 
mer. But — no  condition.  There  he  goes." 

A  half-smothered  groan  had  escaped  the  lips  of  the  girl 
in  the  front  of  the  box.  And  many  an  old  horseman 
groaned  with  her,  in  sympathy  for  the  gallant  Nailer  and 
what  had  happened  out  on  the  back  stretch.  For  at  the 
half-mile  post  Nailer  had  faltered  and  lost  his  stride. 
His  pace  shortened.  The  great,  flashing  stride  which  had 
carried  him  over  the  half  mile  at  close  to  a  record  for  the 
track  was  gone  in  an  instant.  He  had  given  the  best  that 
was  in  him,  had  run  his  best  as  he  had  to  do  to  keep  The 
Hammer  from  distancing  him,  and  now  he  was  through. 
The  indomitable  spirit  was  there,  striving  to  drag  the 


TWISTED  TRAILS  63 

lagging  body  on,  his  effort  diminished  not  in  the  least, 
but  the  legs  would  not,  could  not,  respond. 

"The  Hammer — creeping  up!" 

"Yes.    It  is  the  time,"  murmured  Georges. 

The  black  horse  had  crept  along  the  bay's  flank  in  a  few 
strides.  Neck  and  neck  they  raced,  Nailer,  a  beaten  horse, 
fighting  like  mad  to  keep  even;  then  the  black's  nose 
showed  in  front. 

"Nailer's  finished,"  said  Martel,  and  turned  his  glasses 
elsewhere.  But  Nailer  though  he  was  beaten  was  not 
quite  finished.  A  silk-clad  green  and  gold  arm  glimmered 
in  the  sunlight  as  his  jockey  flashed  the  whip  in  the  air 
and  brought  it  down  with  a  vicious  cut.  With  a  leap  that 
was  only  a  thing  of  will  and  nerve  the  indomitable  horse 
responded,  gained  a  foot  or  two,  raced  neck  and  neck  for 
a  few  strides,  then  began  to  fall  back. 

"The  Hammer!    The  Hammer!" 

The  r:~owd  was  hailing  the  leader  vociferously,  but 
Georges  Martel  had  his  glasses  trained  elsewhere,  and  a 
rush  of  blood  suffused  his  face,  thickened  his  neck,  while 
his  lips  drew  into  a  thin,  straight  line  of  rage,  defeat  and 
hate  unspeakable. 

"Damn  it !"  he  muttered.    "He  wasn't  ready,  after  all !" 

Out  on  the  far  side  of  the  closely  bunched  trailers  two 
lengths  behind  The  Hammer,  a  low-running,  lean  chestnut 
filly  had  struck  her  stride,  and,  swinging  far  toward  the 
farther  fence,  went  wide  to  be  dear  of  her  field.  The 
race  of  Nailer  was  over :  the  pace  had  told  and  was  telling 
harder  upon  The  Hammer ;  and  the  chestnut  filly,  though 


64  TWISTED  TRAILS 

outclassed  by  two  horses  in  the  field,  was  demonstrating 
the  invincibility  of  perfect  condition. 

Trained  to  the  minute,  just  right  for  this  hour,  she 
had  just  begun  to  run  her  race.  Running  like  a  machine 
she  cleared  the  ruck,  still  going  wide;  at  the  curve  she 
cut  across  the  track  and  reached  Nailer's  heaving  flanks. 
She  swung  to  the  rail,  her  nose  at  The  Hammer's  rump, 
her  tail  before  Nailer's  nose.  Like  three  machines  they 
were  outlined  against  the  rail  in  this  order  as  they  swung 
round  the  curve  for  the  finish — then  it  happened. 

A  space  of  daylight  showed  between  the  side  of  the 
hard-driven  Hammer  and  the  white-painted  rail.  The 
whip  of  the  boy  on  the  filly  flashed  in  the  air.  Like  a 
bullet  the  chestnut  flew  into  the  gap,  filled  it,  and  with 
whips  flying  The  Hammer  and  Venus  Delight  swung  in 
for  the  finish  on  even  terms,  with  Nailer  a  bad  third. 

"The  favorite!    The  favorite!" 

The  fickle  crowd  had  changed  its  tune. 

"Venus  Delight!     Come  on — Venus!" 

Nailer  was  through.  He  dropped  back  and  a  rangy 
bay  nosed  him  out  of  the  money  before  the  finish  began 
to  be  ridden.  Out  in  front  the  filly  and  The  Hammer 
were  fighting  like  the  true  racers  they  were.  For  a  space 
the  big  black  held  his  own  through  the  power  of  the  breed 
in  him.  Then  the  chestnut  showed  her  nose  ahead.  There 
was  only  the  semblance  of  a  struggle  on  The  Hammer's 
part.  For  a  stride  he  responded  to  the  spur  of  the  whip, 
but  as  the  filly  crept  ahead  the  fight  went  out  of  him. 

"Venus  Delight!     Come  on!" 

The   Hammer   quit.     The  boy   flogged  him  to  the 


TWISTED  TRAILS  65 

finish  line,  but  he  had  quit  too  soon  to  have  a  chance. 
Like  a  flash  Venus  Delight  went  forward  and  made  the 
race  safe.  A  length  in  the  lead  she  flashed  by  the  judges. 
The  Hammer  second,  the  rangy  bay  third.  Somewhere 
back  in  the  ruck  was  Nailer,  overlooked,  forgotten — no, 
not  quite. 

"Poor  old  Nailer!"  murmured  Estella.  "What  a 
shame !" 

"Venus  Delight  wins!" 

"Venus  always  wins,"  murmured  Georges  MarteL 
"Even  over  The  Hammer." 

"Lose  much?"  asked  Hartland. 

Georges  looked  at  him  curiously  a  moment. 

"Oh,  so-so,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
"Nevertheless,  it  was  quite  important  that  I  should  win." 

He  smiled  easily ;  but  the  face  of  his  father,  the  aristo- 
cratic Pierre  Martel,  had  become  drawn  and  sunken;  the 
old  eyes  were  blazing  and  his  cheeks  were  the  color  of  cold 
ashes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

QTEPHEN  excused  himself  and  hurried  from  the 
^  pavilion  the  moment  the  race  was  over.  He  shoul- 
dered his  way  through  the  excited  throng  in  the  betting 
ring,  through  the  crowd  in  paddock,  down  the  long  line 
of  stalls  and  finally  came  upon  Terry  and  his  beaten 
horse. 

"Gee,  Terry,"  the  disconsolate  jockey  was  saying,  "I 
tell  you  I  thought  I  had  'em  all  beat.  He  had  more  in 
him  for  that  first  half  than  any  nag  I  ever  had  between 
my  knees.  He " 

"Aw,  can  that  chatter,  Monk,"  muttered  Terry.  "Ain't 
you  told  me  that  thoity  times?  Don't  I  know  it?  Didn't 
I  give  you  the  dope  on  it  before  the  start?  Well,  cheer 
up,  Terry !  Some  day  they  got  to  run  for  you." 

"How  much  money  do  you  need  to  get  him  in  shape 
to  do  himself  justice?"  asked  Warren  abruptly. 

"What?" 

The  question  was  repeated. 

Terry  McGurk  shook  his  red  head,  rubbed  it,  staring 
meanwhile  at  Steppy  as  if  he  doubted  his  ears. 

"That's  funny,"  he  said  at  last.  "That  listens  like  a 
dream." 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Warren. 

"Here  comes  Bomb  Carkey  a  minute  ago  and  says: 

66 


TWISTED  TRAILS  67 

'Terry,  you  up  against  it?'  *Up  against  it  hard,  Bomb,' 
I  says.  'I  was  drunk,  you  know,'  he  says,  'when  I  pulled 
that  rough  stuff.'  'That's  all  right,  Bomb,'  says  I.  'I 
shot  my  wad  on  the  wheel  last  night,'  says  Bomb,  'or  I'd 
stake  you.'  And  here  I'm  wondering  why  it  couldn't  be 
some  guy  who  hadn't  shot  his  wad  who  was  willing  to 
stake  me — and  you  come  along,  and — say,  why  do  you 
want  to  kid  me,  bo?" 

"I'll  stake  you  if  it  won't  cost  too  much,"  replied  War- 
ren. "I  don't  know  anything  about  the  game;  that's  up 
to  you.  But  I'll  stake  you  to  training  expenses  so  you 
can  get  him  in  shape." 

"But — what's  the  game?"  stammered  Terry. 

"No  game.  I  feel  he  ought  to  have  his  chance.  If 
you  can  get  him  in  shape  to  run  a  full  race  the  way  he 
ran  the  first  half  mile  it  seems  to  me  you'd  win  some 
money." 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  the  game,  eh?"  said 
Terry  shrewdly  after  a  pause.  "Well,  you  made  a  pretty 
good  guess  then.  If  I  get  him  in  shape  to  go  a  full  race 
at  that  speed  he'll  be  right;  and  if  he's  right — that's  the 
day  the  ponies  soit'nly  will  run  for  little  Terry  Mc- 
Gurk.  How  strong  is  your  bank  roll,  bo?  Can  you  scare; 
up  five  hundred  berries?  Fine! 

"Now,  get  me  straight,  bo,  I  can't  see  myself  letting 
you  stake  me  to  training  expenses  for  Nailer.  You  took 
a  chance  with  Carkey  for  me,  and — and  that  went  a  long 
ways  with  me.  If  you  want  to  back  Terry  McGurk's 
stable  now  when  it's  in  the  hole  you  get  in  on  it  when  it 
pulls  up  to  where  we  cash  in.  I've  got  Nailer,  and  I 


68  TWISTED  TRAILS 

couldn't  borrow  ten  dollars  on  him  from  any  of  these 
wise  birds  round  here;  you've  got  five  hundred  iron  men, 
and  you — you  believe  in  the  horse,  don't  you?  All  right. 
Fifty-fifty.  What  d'you  say?  Fine!  We'll  have  him 
right  for  the  Mardi  Gras  Handicap  in  February ! 

"The  Hammer '11  be  in  it,  and  we'll  beat  him  and  we'll 
clean  up.  Can  you  slip  me  a  hundred  now,  so  I  can 
square  up  here  and  ship  him  over  to  Lily  City  ?  Oh,  boy, 
real  money!  Pretty  yellow  strangers,  you  soit'nly  feel 

good!  Say,  Mr.  Warren — say Oh,  cheer  up, 

Terry;  now  they  got  to  run  for  you  some  day  sure." 

In  the  betting  ring  beneath  the  grand  stand  Stephen 
passed  Georges  Martel  and  the  big  bookmaker.  The 
packet  of  new,  yellow  bills  was  reposing  in  the  hands  of 
the  bookmaker's  cashier  and  Georges  was  returning  an 
empty  wallet  to  his  pocket  with  an  air  of  a  man  who  has 
parted  with  nothing  of  the  slightest  significance  to  him- 
self. 

Georges  could  do  that;  he  could  carry  off  a  desperate 
loss  with  a  laugh,  but  with  his  father  it  was  a  different 
matter.  If  ever  desperation  had  shown  in  the  expression 
of  a  man  it  had  shown  in  the  drawn,  ash-colored  counte- 
nance of  the  aristocratic  Pierre  Martel  when  he  saw  The 
Hammer  drop  back  to  defeat. 

"That  money  must  have  come  close  to  meaning  life 
or  death  to  the  old  man,"  thought  Stephen,  "and  he's  the 
man  who  owns  the  timber  of  Black  Woods." 

He  left  the  track  at  once,  bribed  a  taxi  driver  with  a 
heavy  fee  to  drive  back  to  the  city  as  fast  as  he  could,  and 
in  a  tall  building  overlooking  Canal  Street,  he  went 


TWISTED  TRAILS  69 

straight  to  the  office  of  his  lawyer.  It  was  after  bank- 
ing hours,  but  at  Stephen's  behest  the  lawyer  succeeded 
in  converting  the  young  man's  draft  for  five  thousand 
dollars  into  fifty  new  one-hundred  dollar  bills.  With  this 
in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat  Stephen,  in  company  with 
the  lawyer,  took  his  post  in  the  St.  Charles  Hotel  to  wait 
for  the  return  of  the  older  Martel  from  the  track. 

"If  you're  going  to  do  any  business  with  the  Martels 
keep  your  eyes  open,  Warren,"  warned  the  lawyer. 
"They're  a  fine  old  family  in  name,  but  they've  ruined 
themselves  by  gambling  and  other  things,  and  there  are 
some  bad  stories  round  about  them." 

"All  right,  Gambier,"  replied  Stephen.  "I'm  taking 
you  along  to  see  that  everything's  all  right.  There  they 
come  now.  Georges  goes  into  the  bar  to  have  a  drink, 
and  his  father  goes  alone  to  his  room.  Fine!  Come 
along,  Gambier ;  I  want  to  talk  to  the  old  man  by  himself 
and  I  want  to  begin  the  talk  with  a  good,  big  quotation 
from  the  works  of  Uncle  Sam's  treasury  department." 

He  wasted  no  time  after  they  had  been  admitted  to  the 
old  man's  room  and  the  greetings  were  over. 

"I  am  told  you  are  the  owner  of  the  Black  Woods, 
Mr.  Martel,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  buy  the  pine  on  it  if 
it's  for  sale.  I'll  give  you  a  better  deal  than  the  Hartland 
Company.  They  probably  will  tell  you  it's  just  an  ordi- 
nary piece  of  swamp.  I  admit  frankly  it's  a  wonderful 
piece  of  timber.  There's  a  lot  of  it.  I'll  cruise  it  care- 
fully with  your  own  cruiser,  and  then  we  can  agree  on  a 
just  price.  In  the  meantime  I'll  deposit  five  thousand 
dollars  of  the  purchase  price  with  you  for  the  option, 


70  TWISTED  TRAILS 

and,"  he  concluded,  swiftly  producing  the  proceeds  of  the 
certified  check,  "I'll  do  it  right  now." 

Mr.  Martel  glanced  casually  at  the  little  package  which 
Stephen  had  placed  on  the  table  before  him,  saw  that  it 
contained  fifty  one-hundred  dollar  bills  and  assumed  an 
air  of  tolerant  indifference. 

"They  are  very  impetuous,  these  Yankees,  when  it  is  a 
matter  o£  business,  eh,  Gambier?"  said  he  lightly.  "What 
makes  you  think  I  wish  to  sell  the  pine,  Mr.  Warren  ?" 

"Five  thousand  dollars,"  repeated  Stephen  absently, 
riffling  the  crisp  contents  of  the  package.  He  did  not 
look  at  Mattel's  face,  but  he  watched  the  old  man's  long, 
brown  hands  and  the  fingers  were  trembling.  "If  you 
want  to  do  business,  give  me  an  option  and — take  the 
money.  If  not — I'll  take  it  away."  He  riffled  the  yellow 
bills  again. 

Mr.  Martel's  fingers  worked  nervously  as  Stephen  made 
a  gesture  as  if  to  return  the  money  to  his  pocket. 

"This  is  not  a  thing  to  be  decided  so  abruptly,"  he  said 
with  affected  lightness.  "I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  selling 
tracts  of  timber  so  suddenly." 

"And  I'm  not  asking  you  to  close  the  deal  right  now. 
I'm  offering  you  that  five  thousand  dollars  for  an  option, 
in  case  you  want  to  sell.  If  I'm  wrong,  and  you  don't 
want  to  sell — I'll  take  the  five  thousand  away." 

"I  have  not  said  that  I  wish  to  sell  it,"  said  the  old 
man  in  a  faint  voice,  while  his  eyes  ran  desperately  round 
the  room  but  returned  as  if  fascinated  to  the  pile  of  ready 
money  on  the  table.  "I  have  not  said  I  wish  to  sell." 

"Then  I'm  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr.  Martel," 


TWISTED  TRAILS  71 

Stephen  swept  the  money  into  his  pocket  and  out  of  sight 
for  an  instant,  then  drew  it  forth  and  replaced  it  on  the 
table  while  he  apparently  arranged  some  papers  in  the 
pocket.  "I  have  to  apologize  to  Mr.  Gambier,  too,  be- 
cause I  dragged  him  over  to  draw  up  a  memorandum  in 
case  you  wished  to  make  a  deal  and  keep  the  five  thou- 
sand. I'll  have  to  pay  him  for  his  time,  while  you,  Mr. 
Martel,  will  just  have  to  forgive  me  for  troubling  you." 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  on  the  money  and  as  Stephen's 
hand  stretched  forth  to  sweep  it  out  of  sight  again,  he 
spoke  swiftly: 

"It  has  been  no  trouble,"  said  he. 

Stephen  paused,  his  hand  near  the  money. 

"Perhaps  after  all,"  continued  Martel  nervously,  "I 
might  consider  selling.  I — I  am  not  sure."  He  stretched 
his  hand  toward  the  money  and  withdrew  it  sharply.  "An 
option,  you  say,  Mr.  Warren?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "but  if  you  don't  want  to  sell 
there's  no  use  talking  further.  If  you  want  to  sell — 
want  to  give  me  an  option  right  now — there's  the  money ; 
but  since  you're  not  sure  I  suppose  I'd  better  take  it  away 
and  put  it  in  some  safe.  It's  too  much  money  to  lie  round 
loose — five  thousand  dollars." 

"I  will  sell!" 

Mr.  Martel  had  risen  suddenly  in  his  chair,  his  long 
hand  reaching  like  a  claw  for  the  money.  The  packet  of 
bills  crinkled  and  crumpled  in  his  grasp. 

"Yes!  I  will  sell!"  he  snapped  recklessly.  "Gambier, 
draw  up  the  paper !" 

His  face  was  flushed  and  swollen,  and  he  swayed  like 


72  JWISTED  TRAILS 

a  drunken  man.  Suddenly  he  seemed  to  shrink  and,  as 
If  from  some  invisible  menace,  he  cowered  and  sank 
slowly  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  livid  with  fear  of 
something  that  no  one  save  himself  could  see.  He 
'.hitched  the  packet  of  bills  as  a  drowning  man  clutches 
a  rope.  The  struggle  shook  him  like  a  dead  tree  in  a 
storm,  but  at  last  he  dropped  the  money  with  a  sharp 
groan. 

"No!  No,  I  cannot  sell — I  mean,  I  will  not  sell!" 
He  stammered.  "Take  your  money  away — take  it  out 
of  my  sight !"  he  almost  screamed.  "You " 

"Martel !"  said  Gambier  softly. 

Jhe  old  aristocrat  drew  himself  together  proudly  and 
rose  and  bowed  with  courtly  dignity. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  offer,  Mr.  Warren,"  he  said 
formally,  bowing  them  from  the  room.  "It  was  a  privi- 
lege to  receive  it  but — Black  Woods  is  not  for  sale." 


CHAPTER  X 

OTEPHEN    took   the    defeat   of   his    venture   with 
philosophic  calm,  as  a  business  deal  that  did  not  go 
through,  but  Gambier  knew  old  Martel  and  the  latter's 
conduct  had  astounded  him. 

"It  is  beyond  me,"  said  the  lawyer  as  he  and  Stephen 
parted.  "He  was  ready  to  sell  his  soul  for  ready  money, 
but  he  was  afraid  to  sell  that  timber.  If  it  was  any  one 
else  I  would  say  there  was  something  illegal  about  it 
but  Martel  has  no  respect  for  traditions.  He  has  dis- 
graced himself  long  ago  by  flouting  the  law." 

"He  looked  as  if  he'd  seen  a  ghost" 

"Yes,  that  was  my  impression  too." 

"Do  folks  see  ghosts  down  here?" 

"Not  as  a  regular  thing,"  said  Gambier,  "but  there  are 
some  ugly  stories  about  the  Martels — very  ugly.  Take 
my  advice,"  he  concluded;  "have  as  little  to  do  with 
them  as  possible." 

Warren  nodded  and  turned  toward  the  desk,  and  as 
he  did  so  he  saw  Georges  Martel  emerging  from  the  bar. 
In  a  wish  to  avoid  him  Stephen  sought  to  slip  away  but 
Martel  had  seen  him  and  it  was  too  late. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Warren!"  With  no  apparent  movement  on 
his  part  Martel  somehow  seemed  to  project  himself  into 
Steppy's  path. 

73 


74  TWISTED  TRAILS 

He  proffered  cigarettes  from  a  gold  case,  produced  a 
tiny  golden  lighter,  laughed  and  chatted  with  such  easy 
good  fellowship  that  Warren  at  once  found  himself 
laughing  and  chatting  in  response.  That  the  defeat  of 
The  Hammer  had  cost  young  Martel  a  sum  large  enough 
to  hurt  was  the  last  thing  that  any  one  would  have  sus- 
pected from  his  manner.  On  the  contrary  one  might 
well  have  supposed  it  was  a  field  day  for  him,  by  the 
lightness  of  his  spirits.  With  the  effortless  ease  of  the 
polished  man  of  the  world  he  controlled  the  conversa- 
tion, leading  it  playfully  to  the  races,  to  the  incidents  of 
the  day,  including  the  affair  with  Carkey,  all  as  if  he 
had  not  a  care  or  aim  in  the  world. 

"That  was  skillfully  done,  Warren — I  refer  to  that 
little  incident  with  Carkey,"  he  said  carelessly  at  last. 
"On  the  spur  of  the  moment — no  delicate  means  at  hand, 
no  instinct  for  selection,  therefore  no  waste  of  time — 
made  the  best  use  of  what  you  had — even  a  sack  of  grain ! 
I  have  been  thinking  of  it  as  a  typically  Yankee  feat." 

"Well,  it  served,"  said  Stephen. 

"Ah !  Again  typically  Yankee.  It  served.  What  more 
is  to  be  said  ?  What  of — possible  consequences  ?" 

Steppy  refused  to  respond  with  the  obvious  question. 

"There  are  always  consequences — potential  conse- 
quences, you  know,  Warren.  In  this  case  for  instance, 
your  target  practice  with  a  sack  of  oats — what  lamentable 
consequences  might  it  not  have  had." 

Still  Steppy  remained  silent. 

"If  you  should  enter  Hartland's  employ,  for  instance," 
murmured  Martel  softly,  and  waited. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  75 

Warren's  countenance  slowly  took  upon  itself  the  non- 
committal expression  natural  to  him  when  instinct  whis- 
pered the  approach  of  a  crisis.  He  waited;  already  he 
knew  that  he  was  a  better  waiter  than  Martel. 

"You  see,  Warren,  our  thick-necked  friend,  Mr. 
Carkey,  is  a  foreman  over  at  Hartland's  at  Haute  Isle 
Camp." 

"Really?"  drawled  Steppy,  without  a  change  in  his 
tone  of  expression.  Martel  hid  his  irritation  with  a  smile. 

"Really.  As  I  say,  Mr.  Carkey — a  foreman  at  Haute 
Isle.  A  remarkable  personality,  Mr.  Carkey.  He  and 
the  position  of  foreman  over  there  seem  almost  created 
for  one  another.  As  a  position,  frankly  it  is  not  a  nice 
one.  Hartland  cannot  choose  the  men  who  are  willing 
to  work  in  the  swamps  over  there.  Whites — he  must 
have  some  whites,  of  course — do  not  go  to  work  in  those 
swamps  unless  there  is  some  other  compensation  besides 
that  of  pay.  Isolation — security,  for  instance.  It  is 
quite  out  of  the  way  over  there — almost  out  of  the  world 
one  might  say.  Troublesome  people  seldom  come  that 
way — sheriffs,  detectives,  for  instance.  No,  they  do 
not  like  to  come  over  there,  and  so  a  white  man — any 
white  man — in  those  swamps  is  usually  quite  safe  as 
long  as  he  remains  in  them.  We  will  not  be  crude;  we 
will  not  say  they  are  bad,  rough  boys  hiding  out,  but — 
you  comprehend,  I  am  sure.  Well,  such  free,  original 
spirits  are,  of  course,  not  angels.  They  do  not  lose  their 
peculiar  characteristics  simply  because  they  are  there. 
Control — for  there  must  be  control — control  over  them 


76  TWISTED  TRAILS 

is  a  problem  which  requires  a  peculiar  personality  for  its 
solution. 

"Then  there  are  the  blacks.  Children — restless  chil- 
dren with  no  sense  of  responsibility,  and  with  the  child's 
delight  in  frequent  change.  Quite  innocent,  of  course, 
but  Hartland  cannot  afford  to  have  his  labor  force  sud- 
denly depleted  by  the  foolish  whim  of  these  children — 
cannot  have  men  quitting  when  they  please,  and  going 
off  and — and  bearing  tales  perhaps.  To  keep  enough 
labor  at  work  over  there  is  not  so  easy.  You  see,  it  must 
be  a  peculiar  man  to  control  these  conditions.  I  will  say 
that  Mr.  Carkey  is  peculiar. 

"You  know,  of  course,  why  he  lost  his  chance  for  the 
heavyweight  championship.  No?  Well,  because  he  was 
too  tough.  Delicious,  isn't  it?  Barred  from  the  prize 
ring  for  being  too  tough.  Where  should  such  a  man  go? 
Where  on  earth  find  a  place  for  him?  Warren,  there  is 
a  niche  in  this  world  for  every  peculiar  personality  in 
existence.  There  he  is,  Carkey,  a  perfect  flower  of  his 
type,  blooming  in  the  soil  for  .which  he  is  adapted.  A 
little  embittered,  perhaps,  because  of  a  noble  ambition 
thwarted,  but — perfect  for  his  present  job.  You  under- 
stand, Warren?  The  job — the  man." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Steppy  slowly,  "but  what's  all  that 
got  to  do  with  me?" 

Mattel  expressed  a  volume  with  a  smile  and  a  shrug. 

"The  sack  of  grain — the  peculiar  Mr.  Carkey — his 
pride  was  touched — he  does  not  forget — if  you  should 
meet  over  there " 

Another  smile  and  a  shrug. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  77 

"It  gives  you  something  to  think  of,  I  see,  Warren." 

"Yes,  it  does,"  said  Steppy.  "I  was  wondering  why 
you  could  control  him  and  curl  him  up  as  you  did  with 
one  word.  I  wonder  if  he  isn't  a  big  four-flusher." 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence,  though  so  calm 
were  both  men  that  none  of  the  throng  about  them 
noticed  that  anything  unusual  was  taking  place.  Martel 
laughed  carelessly. 

"No,  he  is  not  a  four-flusher;  I  assure  you  of  that, 
Warren,"  said  he. 

"See  here,  Martel,"  said  Stephen  suddenly,  "let's  be 
frank  with  one  another.  Have  you  any  objection  to  hav- 
ing me  as  a  neighbor  over  at  Lily  City  ?" 

"My  dear  fellow!  How  could  you  imagine  such  a 
thing?" 

"All  right.  Then  let's  drop  Carkey.  I  just  had  a 
talk  with  your  father." 

"Indeed?" 

"I  came  within  a  shade  of  getting  an  option  on  Black 
Woods  from  him." 

Martel  sobered  so  suddenly  that  he  swayed  forward 
from  the  shock. 

"But — you — did  not  get  it?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"No !  Your  father  seemed  to  want  to  sell,  too.  Tell 
me,  Martel,  what's  wrong  with  Black  Woods?" 

Martel  was  cold  sober  now.  The  flush  had  gone  from 
his  handsome  face  and  for  a  moment  his  expression  was 
one  of  suspicion  and  alarm. 

"Do  you  think  there  is  something  wrong  about  Black 
Woods,  Warren?"  he  asked,  his  tone  and  manner  such 


78  TWISTED  TRAILS 

that  in  substance  he  was  asking:  "Dare  you,  a  Yankee 
outsider,  question  anything  which  concerns  the  Martel 
family?" 

Stephen  replied  deliberately: 

"I  hadn't  thought  so — until  now,"  and  by  the  uncom- 
fortable silence  which  followed  he  knew  he  had  scored  a 
hit. 

Martel  puffed  his  cigarette  appreciatively,  his  head 
thrown  far  back,  his  eyes  staring  at  the  ceiling.  When 
at  last  he  spoke  it  was  with  the  manner  of  one  who  speaks 
the  final  word  of  discussion. 

"Black  Woods — in  all  confidence,  Warren — Black 
Woods  is  an  excellent  spot  for  you  to  forget." 

"In  all  confidence,"  retorted  Stephen,  "what  is  wrong 
with  that  tract?  What  is  the  mystery ?" 

"Forget  it — absolutely,"  repeated  Martel,  turning 
away.  "Especially  forget  that  you  fancy  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  about  it." 


CHAPTER  XI 

^THOROUGHLY  nettled  by  Martel's  manner  Stephen 
set  out  at  once  to  find  Mr.  Hartland.  His  mind 
was  made  up.  Hitherto  Black  Woods  had  interested  him 
as  a  business  proposition,  but  Georges  Martel,  by  his 
words  and  attitude,  had  removed  the  matter  from  that 
category  and  had  made  it  a  personal  affair.  There  was 
enough  of  the  boy  left  in  Warren  t®  be  lured  by  the  ad- 
venture which  Black  Woods  promised;  and  there  was 
enough  of  the  fighter  in  him  to  be  roused  by  Martel's 
command,  disguised  as  advice,  to  forget  about  the  tract. 
He  considered  the  strange  conduct  of  Martel,  Senior. 
There  was  something  wrong  with  the  tract,  that  was 
sure.  Gambier  had  given  the  Martels  a  black  reputa- 
tion and  had  hinted  at  certain  ugly  stories.  It  was  all 
interesting,  all  alluring,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  came  the 
white-hot  memory  of  Georges  Martel  and  his  bestial 
gesture  behind  Estella  Reid's  back,  and  the  look  in  her 
eyes  which  hinted  tragedy. 

Stephen  recalled  the  three  rifle  shots  which  had  driven 
him  from  the  Woods  two  days  before  and  smiled.  It 
was  rather  obvious  that  visitors  to  Black  Woods  were 
not  desired;  and  the  conduct  of  Georges  and  his  father 
implied  that  there  were  serious  reasons  for  this  desire 
for  exclusiveness.  And  Estella  Reid  had  smiled  at 
Stephen  when  she  recognized  him  at  the  track. 

79 


80  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Warren  went  to  Mr.  Hartland's  room  determined  to 
tell  him  that  he  was  not  ready  to  accept  the  position  at 
Lily  City  until  he  had  investigated  Black  Woods ;  but  to 
his  surprise  Hartland  called  out: 

"You're  a  fine  one!  I  was  just  starting  on  the  war- 
path for  you." 

"And  I  was  looking  for  you,  Mr.  Hartland.    I " 

"Whoa!"  Hartland  held  up  a  broad  solid  hand. 
"Hold  up  a  minute.  This  is  a  serious  matter,  a  mighty 
serious  matter.  Don't  you  know  it  is?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Mighty — mighty  serious,"  continued  Hartland, 
wagging  his  iron-gray  head  ominously.  "Why,  I  was 
beginning  to  get  acclimated,  Warren;  getting  into  step 
with  the  climate ;  and  here  you  come  along  and  give  me 
a  prod  by  reminding  me  of  how  things  ought  to  be  done. 
Haven't  you  got  any  mercy  on  a  fat  old  man  who's  quit 
hustling?  Yes,  sir,  it's  serious — so  darn  serious  that 
you  and  I  have  got  to  hunt  up  a  nice  quiet  place  and 
have  a  nice  big  dinner  before  discussing  the  matter  any 
further." 

"But  we  haven't  discussed  it  at  all,"  protested  Stephen. 
"I  looked  you  up  to  tell  you " 

"Stop!  Business  is  business,  but  dinner  at  La  Creole 
is  an  art.  I've  been  severely  shocked  by  your  conduct, 
young  feller,  and  I  won't  be  fit  to  discuss  it  until  we've 
seen  what  little  Charley  Benoit  can  do  for  what  ails  us." 

Little  Charley  Benoit  could  and  did  do  much  for  them. 
La  Creole  Restaurant  was  known  for  its  food  rather 
than  for  its  jazz,  and  the  tiny  proprietor  led  the  pair  to 


TWISTED  TRAILS  81 

a  quiet  table,  appraised  their  tastes  and  capacities  ex- 
pertly, and  thereupon  proceeded  to  give  his  art  full  sway. 

Through  the  smoke  of  a  Corona  following  the  thick 
black  coffee  at  the  end  of  the  meal  Hartland  at  last  turned 
a  twinkling  scrutiny  upon  Stephen  and  chuckled : 

"Young  feller,  what  were  you  trying  to  do  to  old 
Martel?  Trying  to  steal  a  march  on  me,  eh?  Ha! 
You've  got  your  nerve!  Yes,  sir,  you've  got  a  lot  of 
brass.  It — it's  just  what  I  would  have  tried  to  do  when 
I  was  your  age." 

Between  leisurely  puffs  at  his  cigar  Stephen  responded : 

"Well!  The  old  gentleman  must  have  made  rather 
quick  time  bringing  the  news  to  you." 

"He  didn't.  Not  a  word  have  I  heard  from  him. 
Haven't  even  see  him." 

"You've  seen  Georges  then?" 

"Nope." 

"Gambier?" 

"Nope." 

"I've  had  three  guesses;  I  give  up,"  laughed  Stephen, 
"How  did  you  hear  about  it?" 

Hartland  chuckled  with  relish. 

"Old  Martel's  pretty  ward,  Miss  Reid,  told  me,"  said 
he.  "Lord,  what  a  girl  she  is.  If  she  wasn't  a  lady  she 
would  be  a  regular  spit-fire  when  her  temper  is  up.  She 
certainly  did  rake  you  over  the  coals,  Warren." 

Stephen  blessed  the  size  and  quality  of  his  cigar  which 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  instantly  mask  his  counte- 
nance behind  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke. 

"Did  she?"  he  asked  casually. 


83  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"She  did.  She  was  disappointed  in  you.  She  had 
been  foolish  enough  to  fancy  you  were  a  little  different 
from  the  ordinary  money-grabber.  Of  course,  she  had 
been  a  fool  for  ever  permitting  such  a  notion  to  enter  her 
head.  One  has  only  to  look  at  your  jaw,  and  your 
clothes,  to  know  you're  a  typical  sample  of  that  abomina- 
tion known  as  a  snappy  business  man." 

Hartland  suddenly  gave  vent  to  the  explosive  laughter 
which  had  been  welling  up  in  him.  "Man,  Oh,  boy! 
She  certainly  did  tell  me  what  she  thought  of  you.  She 
was  disappointed;  no  question  about  that.  She  wanted 
to  know  if  I  was  thinking  of  bringing  that  sort  of  a  man 
— meaning  you — to  Lily  City  ?" 

"What  did  you  reply  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"I  said,  'You  bet  your  pretty  little  boots  I  am — if 
he'll  come,' "  was  the  emphatic  answer.  "And  then  she 
sailed  into  me.  That  was  just  what  was  to  be  expected 
of  my  kind.  She  had  known  it  all  the  time — the  first 
time  she  laid  eyes  on  me.  And  you,  too.  We  are  a  couple 
of  low  money-grabbers.  It  shows  all  over  us.  Please 
don't  ever  speak  to  her  again.  The  idea  of  your  rushing 
into  old  Martel's  room  when  he  was  ill  in  bed  and  trying 
to  bully  him  into  selling  Black  Woods." 

"What!" 

Stephen  sat  up  so  violently  that  the  pink  candle-shades 
on  the  table  danced  dangerously. 

"The  very  idea !"  continued  Hartland.  "A  brute.  A 
low,  sneaking  brute,  that's  what  you  are.  Well,  what 
are  you  staring  at.  It's  so,  isn't  it?" 

"No!" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  8& 

"Hell!"  laughed  Hartland.    "I'm  disappointed." 

"Mr.  Martel  was  not  ill  when  Gambier  and  I  saw  him 
in  his  room." 

"He  wasn't?" 

"No,  sir.  He  was  well  enough  to  grab  my  option 
money  and  throw  it  back  at  me  and  show  us  out  of  the 
room." 

"Tell  me  about  it!"  cried  Hartland;  and  Stephen  re- 
lated the  story  of  what  had  taken  place  in  the  elder 
Mattel's  room.  He  said  nothing  of  his  meeting  with 
Georges,  regarding  that  as  purely  a  personal  matter. 

"I  see,"  chuckled  Hartland  behind  his  cigar.  "It  was 
your  strongarm  tactics  that  put  him  in  bed.  He  switched 
the  story  a  little  to  Miss  Reid ;  said  you  found  him  in  bed. 
He's  sort  of  slippery,  Martel  is." 

"I  don't  see  why  he  should  trouble  to  lie  about  a 
straight  business  proposition  like  that." 

"No,"  said  Hartland  slowly,  "unless  it  wasn't  all 
straight  on  his  part.  There's  something  a  little  funny 
about  that  piece  of  timber.  If  you  had  come  to  me  first 
I  could  have  told  you  it  wouldn't  work,  even  though  your 
psychology  was  right  on  the  ready  cash  proposition." 

"How  could  you  know  ?"  demanded  Stephen. 

"Well,  you  see,  Warren,"  Hartland  paused  to  grin, 
"I've  been  trying  to  buy  that  timber  myself  for  the  last 
two  years." 

"Ouch!"  exclaimed  Stephen. 

"Cheer  up!  I  haven't  succeeded.  You  did  better  than 
I  did ;  you  kept  your  money.  The  old  rip  got  three  thou- 
sand out  of  me  for  an  option." 


84.  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"The  more  I  hear  of  Mr.  Martel,"  said  Stephen,  "the 
worse  he  gets.  He  had  sold  you  an  option  on  Black 
Woods  and  yet  he  was  going  to  sell  one  to  me.  He's 
good !  How  long  does  your  option  hold  ?" 

"That's  the  funny  part  of  it,"  responded  Hartland. 
"There's  a  hitch  in  the  deal.  Did  he  make  any  stipula- 
tion to  you?  No?  Well,  it's  very  unbusinesslike.  I 
started  in  to  get  the  piece  two  years  ago,  feeling  him  out 
to  get  his  lowest  price.  A  year  ago  I  offered  him  a  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  flat.  That's  almost  half  as  much 
as  the  thing's  worth.  And  still  he  wouldn't  sell.  A 
while  back  he  began  to  be  more  willing  to  listen  to  reason. 
I  suppose  he  was  hard  up  for  money.  At  all  events,  a 
couple  of  months  ago,  about  the  time  his  ward,  Miss 
Reid,  came  back  from  school  he  offered  me  an  option  for 
five  thousand  dollars  which  is  what  I'd  offered  him  right 
along.  He  got  three  thousand ;  I  made  him  come  down. 
But  heaven  knows  when  I'll  be  able  to  exercise  the 
blamed  thing." 

"Why  won't  he  sell  outright?     What's  the  hitch?" 

"It's  that  darned  stipulation  on  the  option.  I  shouldn't 
have  agreed  to  it ;  it  isn't  business.  I've  been  rooting  and 
praying  for  it  to  come  off.  Pray  with  me,  will  you, 
Warren?  Then  we  can  log  Black  Woods.  Are  you 
rooting?" 

"Certainly,"  laughed  Stephen.  "What's  the  stipula- 
tion?" 

"Martel  will  sell  Black  Woods  to  me  as  soon  as  his 
son  Georges — they're  engaged — marries  Miss  Reid." 

Stephen  was  conscious  that  he  was  mechanically  go- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  85 

ing  through  the  motions  of  dropping  the  ashes  of  his 
cigar  upon  the  ash  tray,  of  lifting  the  cigar  to  his  lips 
and  sending  forth  a  cloud  of  smoke,  but  the  movements 
were  those  of  an  automaton,  subconscious,  instinctive 
movements  to  conceal  his  true  state  of  mind.  His  mind 
was  a  complete  blank.  Hartland's  words  had  numbed 
him  for  the  moment,  mentally  as  well  as  physically.  Es- 
tella  Reid  marry  Georges  Martel! 

He  listened  to  Mr.  Hartland's  further  remarks  with 
apparent  interest,  but  this,  too,  was  only  a  phase  of 
intuitive  pretense,  for  all  he  heard,  all  that  he  could 
assimilate  just  then  was  the  news  that  Estella  was  to 
marry  Georges. 

"They've  got  it  all  arranged — old  families  joining — 
you  know  they  never  marry  outside — don't  know  when 

it's  coming  off Help  me  root  for  their  making  it 

soon." 

"Sure,"  said  Stephen. 

He  had  so  far  recovered  from  his  numbness  that  he 
was  conscious  of  a  chill  spreading  over  his  body.  It 
seemed  to  creep  along  his  spine  and  to  spread  from  there 
to  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  He  felt  empty.  He  felt  terribly 
alone;  and  like  a  sudden  rush  he  was  warm  again,  and 
flooded  with  confusion.  Why  had  he  permitted  this  to 
affect  him  so? 

The  trouble  was  that  he  had  not  permitted  it,  or  been 
consciously  concerned  in  it  at  all.  It  had  been  bigger 
than  that ;  bigger,  stronger  than  himself.  It  had  been  to 
him  as  a  wild  flood  is  to  a  wisp  of  straw,  and  he  had  been 
caught  and  swept  out  of  himself  by  the  sudden,  irre- 


86  TWISTED  TRAILS 

sistible  upheaval  of  his  deepest  emotions.  Estella  to 
marry  Georges  Martel !  In  the  lightninglike  vision  which 
comes  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime,  in  great  crises,  he  saw 
them  as  lovers,  as  a  newly-wedded  pair.  He  wondered  if 
Hartland  had  observed  the  shudder  that  passed  over 
liim.  Then  he  began  to  fight  back  to  sanity  and  common- 
sense.  What  of  it?  Why  should  it  concern  him?  He 
had  barely  spoke  to  her  and  she  to  him.  And  she  had 
believed  that  he  had  forced  his  way  to  old  Martel's  sick- 
bed with  a  business  deal;  she  had  told  Hartland  it  was 

just  what  she  had  expected  of  him.     She 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  demanded  Hartland. 
"What — what  a  hell  of  a  stipulation  in  a  business 
deal !"  exploded  Warren. 

"I  know,  not  businesslike,  but  it  was  that  or  no  option." 
"You  ought  to  pay  them  to  hasten  the  happy  day!" 
Stephen  was  laughing  uproariously.  "Why,  it's  as  good 
as  a  book,  Hartland!  You've  got  to  get  them  married 
to  get  that  timber.  It — it's  the  funniest  thing  I  ever 
heard  of  in  my  life!" 

"Well  it  isn't  so  funny  to  me.     Old  Martel  has  got 
three  thousand  from  me,"  said  Hartland  grimly. 
"Play  match-maker,  get  them  married." 
"All  right.    Maybe  it  is  a  joke." 
"Maybe?    Why,  it's  immense,  Hartland!" 
"All  right,"  said  Hartland.     "Now  let's  talk  business. 
You've  got  to  come  with  me.     I'll  give  you  a  good  deal — 
I'll  give  you  a  crack  at  the  Black  Woods  deal.     Then  you 
can  try  your  hand  at  hastening  the  happy  event.     I  need 
a  new  superintendent.    I  need  a  man  at  Lily  City  I  can 


TWISTED  TRAILS  87 

depend  on  up  to  the  hilt  and  I  need  him  right  away.  The 
payroll  money  is  getting  too  big  for  young  Landry  to 
handle  alone.  Good  boy,  you  know,  but — well,  Pete 
Martel,  the  sheriff  over  there,  doesn't  seem  to  have  any 
luck  keeping  the  Snake  from  making  a  haul  every  so 
often,  and  if  I  were  a  robber — of  course,  my  competitors 
say  I  am,  but  that's  all  right — if  I  were  robbing  with  a 
gun  for  a  living  and  you  were  taking  care  of  some  money, 
I  believe  I'd  size  you  up  and  leave  that  money  alone. 
That's  one  reason. 

"Now,  there's  Camp  Haute  Isle,  too.  Bomb  Carkey's 
foreman  down  there.  A  good  man,  you  know,  but," 
Hartland  lapped  h-is  head,  "a  whole  lot  of  bone  up  there. 
It  means  I  need  a  walking  boss  between  the  two  places. 
You  take  it,  Warren ;  and  when  Georges  gets  married  or 
anything  else  happens  so  Martel  will  sell  Black  Woods 
you  get  first  crack  at  the  deal.  I'll  turn  my  option  over 
to  you.  How  does  it  sound  to  you  ?" 

Stephen  had  smothered  the  impulse  to  vent  his  mood 
in  bitter  laughter,  and  was  as  hard  and  cold  as  steel. 
In  the  few  minutes  that  Hartland  had  rattled  on  about 
his  need  for  a  new  superintendent  his  listener  had  fought 
and  won  a  battle. 

A  man  couldn't  mix  anything  else  with  business ;  that 
much  was  certain.  A  girl  who  could  look  at  a  man  the 
way  she  had  done  in  the  grand  stand,  and  a  few  hours 
later  talk  about  him  as  she  had  done  to  Hartland — 
Oh,  hell!  They  were  all  that  way.  What  was  the  use 
of  letting  it  bother  a  fellow?  Accept  them  as  they  were;, 
don't  take  them  seriously;  put  them  entirely  out  of  mind. 


88  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Will  you  draw  up  an  agreement  to  that  effect,  Hart- 
land?"  he  asked. 

"That's  the  boy— that's  business !"  said  Hartland.  "I 
will,  gladly." 

"All  right.  You've  hired  some  one." 

"Fine!    'When  can  you  take  hold  over  there?" 

"When  is  the  next  train?" 

"That's  the  way  to  talk,  Warren!  And  let  me  tell 
you,  my  boy,  I  sincerely  hope  you'll  soon  have  the  chance 
to  get  at  Black  Woods.  Warren,  here's  hoping  Miss  Reid 
will  soon  be  Mrs.  Georges  Mattel !" 

Stephen  raised  his  glass  in  response.  His  hand  trem- 
bled in  spite  of  himself.  At  last  he  fairly  roared :  "Here's 
hoping!" 


CHAPTER  XH 

TT  was  perhaps  at  night,  preferably  a  night  of  light 
shifting  clouds  and  a  pale  autumn  moon,  when  the 
bayou's  water  was  sprinkled  with  black  and  silver,  when 
the  tops  of  the  great  trees  were  alight  with  the  moon  and 
the  spaces  beneath  them  were  great  caverns  of  mystery 
and  gloom  relieved  only  by  rays  of  moonlight  filtering 
through  the  foliage,  that  Lily  City  was  to  be  seen  at  its 
best.  The  flitting  moonlight, suggested  rather  than  re- 
vealed; it  fascinated  and  lured  with  promise  rather  than 
with  broad  fulfillment.  A  corner  of  a  stately  mansion,  a 
drifting  pirogue  with  a  pair  of  deeply  engrossed  young 
folk  in  it,  a  bower  of  roses,  a  deep,  bosomed  negress 
crooning  laughingly  to  her  child,  and  everywhere  the 
inevitable  evening  promenade  which  the  coming  of  eve- 
ning coolness  brings  forth  in  all  warm  climes.  There 
were  snatches  of  song  and  soft  laughter;  and  the  atmos- 
phere was  like  the  ineffably  contented  sigh  of  a  woman 
happy  in  her  love. 

Stephen  Warren  stood  on  the  pier  of  the  Hartland 
Mill  and  looked  across  the  light-streaked  bayou  toward 
the  lights  of  Lily  City.  It  was  the  evening  after  his  first 
day  in  charge  of  the  plant.  In  the  saw-mill  behind  him 
tiny  electric  lights  gleamed  in  the  darkness  and  the  clang 
of  a  saw  told  of  a  gang  working  overtime.  To  and  fro 

89 


90  TWISTED  TRAILS 

past  an  open  window  shot  a  log  carriage  bearing  a  log 
against  the  saws.  The  huge  black  sawyer  rode  the  car- 
riage with  the  grip  of  a  gorilla,  his  long  arms  handling 
the  levers  with  uncanny  ease.  A  ripping  sound  as  the 
saws  whipped  through  the  log,  a  whist  of  steam  as  the 
carriage  came  shooting  back,  reset  the  log,  and  flashed 
back  to  the  saws.  The  carriage  came  to  a  standstill, 
empty,  and  the  big  black  leaned  easily  on  the  levers. 

"That's  all,"  came  a  white  man's  voice.  "Shut  'er 
off." 

The  whirr  of  the  saws  and  the  throb  of  an  engine 
ceased.  The  long  low  building  grew  silent.  Silent  men 
came  forth,  white  with  saw-dust,  tamping  tobacco  into 
their  pipes  or  rolling  cigarettes,  not  to  be  lighted  till  they 
had  passed  through  the  gate  of  the  mill-yard  with  its  one- 
armed  old  watchman.  Then  burning  tobacco  perfumed 
the  night  air,  and  said  the  night  watchman: 

"How  does  work  feel  for  a  change,  eh?  He'll  make 
you  like  it.  Good-night,  boys." 

There  was  plenty  to  do  at  the  mill.  There  was  plenty 
to  keep  a  man  who  had  accepted  the  doctrine  that  girls 
were  fickle  jades,  so  occupied  as  to  preclude  his  thinking 
about  anything  but  the  task  in  hand,  if  he  so  desired. 

Lily  City  Mill  was  a  large,  modern  plant  in  need  of  a 
Man,  without  which  even  the  largest  and  most  modern 
plants  are  elaborately  inefficient.  As  Stephen  had  en- 
tered the  yard  that  morning  under  the  escort  of  the  head 
sawyer  who  was  temporarily  in  charge  he  sensed  at  once 
the  haphazard  fashion  in  which  the  mill  was  operating, 


TWISTED  TRAILS  91 

and  set  his  jaw  with  grim  satisfaction  over  the  man-sized 
job  that  was  before  him.  As  he  rolled  up  his  sleeves, 
both  figuratively  and  literally,  he  experienced  the  sense 
of  satisfaction  which  conies  to  the  expert  putting  his 
hand  to  the  wheel,  and  for  the  time  being  he  was  quite 
sure  that  the  emotional  disturbance  of  the  day  before  was 
a  thing  of  the  past,  an  inconsequential  incident,  done  for, 
forgotten.  But,  he  also  thought  with  an  inward  chuckle, 
there  would  be  a  surprise  for  the  Martels  and  Estella 
when  they  grew  tired  of  the  races  and  returned  to  find 
him  boss  of  the  Lily  City  mill. 

As  Mr.  Hartland  had  said,  Johnson,  the  manager  who 
had  preceded  Stephen  at  Lily  City,  had  succumbed  to 
the  climate.  It  had  "got  him."  A  tall,  blonde  Scandi- 
navian by  race,  he  had  required  the  bracing  air  of  his 
native  North  to  keep  stirred  the  wells  of  energy  latent  in 
his  large  frame.  Under  the  caressing  sun  of  Lazy  Land 
he  had  softened,  slowed  up  and  succumbed  to  the  lure 
and  languor  of  the  bayous.  He  had  married  a  Cajun 
girl  as  small  and  dark  as  he  was  large  and  fair,  had  built 
himself  a  shallow-draft  lugger  and  said  to  Hartland: 

"Take  your  old  job;  I've  found  something  better." 

With  his  tiny  wife  as  crew,  he  had  manned  the  lugger 
and  drifted  down  the  bayou,  down  through  swamps  and 
lakes  and  bays  to  a  lazy,  contented  fisherman's  existence 
in  the  sun  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

The  mill,  which  was  a  comparatively  new  plant,  had 
sagged  badly  and  Stephen  saw  a  world  of  labor  awaiting 
him  in  the  task  of  bringing  equipment  and  personnel  up 
to  a  proper  pitch  of  efficiency. 


92  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Smoke  up,"  chuckled  the  sawyer  to  his  men.  "Things 
have  changed  in  this  mill,  niggers.  We  got  a  lumber  man 
here  now." 

From  the  log  pond,  where  the  towboats  emerged  from 
the  swamps  to  turn  their  long  tow  of  logs  over  to  the 
endless  chains  which  gripped  them  and  hauled  them  up 
the  chutes  to  the  carriers  which  passed  them  on  to  the 
whirling  saws,  to  the  loading  yards  where  the  finished 
lumber  went  forth  in  trainloads,  Stephen  went  over  the 
plant  that  day,  seeking  to  speed  it  up  to  full  capacity 
production.  The  plant  was  good,  all  it  needed  was  a 
man  to  run  it.  Up  to  this  time  the  supply  of  logs  had 
been  more  than  adequate  to  the  capacity  of  the  mill. 
Time  and  again  the  towboats  had  been  forced  to  wait 
for  space  in  the  log  pond  to  deposit  their  tows.  But 
before  the  day  was  over  this  was  changed.  By  nightfall 
the  pond  was  empty,  and  the  great  saws  whirred  aim- 
lessly, waiting  for  the  boats  to  bring  up  more  logs. 

The  supply  of  saw  logs  must  be  increased.  And  the 
logs  came  from  Camp  Haute  Isle,  where  Carkey,  the  ex- 
bruiser,  was  foreman. 

"I'll  go  down  there  and  jack  them  up,"  said  Stephen 
as  he  stood  in  the  moonlight  and  looked  at  the  empty 
log  pond.  He  had  worked  hard  enough  during  the  day 
to  send  him  to  bed  with  the  sense  of  a  day  well  spent, 
but  to  retire  was  the  last  thought  in  his  mind.  He  had 
accomplished  enough  to  give  him  the  sense  of  satisfaction 
which  comes  to  the  expert  at  his  craft,  and  his  mind  was 
busy  with  new  ideas  and  plans  for  the  morrow ;  and  yet 
it  all  did  not  satisfy. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  93 

Perhaps  it  was  his  loneliness,  perhaps  the  cavernous 
darkness  of  the  mill  buildings,  tomb-like  now  in  their 
silence,  and  emptiness;  but  at  all  events  Stephen  turned 
from  the  mill  and  stared  across  the  placid  bayou  toward 
where  the  lights  of  Lily  City  were  reflected  upon  the 
water.  He  was  thinking  of  Black  Woods  and  the  Mar- 
tels.  That  was  business.  Hei  had  an  interest  in  the 
future  of  that  timber.  He  steeled  himself  and  refused  to 
let  his  thoughts  stray  from  his  business. 

Black  Woods  might  mean  a  lot  to  him.  He  owed  it 
to  himself  to  find  out  all  he  could  about  the  tract,  why 
the  Martels  were  so  mysterious  about  it;  if  possible  when 
he  might  expect  to  profit  by  Mr.  Hartland's  option.  Doc- 
tor Thibodeaux — he  smiled  as  he  thought  of  him.  Doctor 
Thibodeaux  would  know.  Stephen  stepped  into  a  pirogue 
and  paddled  across  the  bayou  to  the  mirrored  lights  of 
Lily  City  and  turned  his  steps  toward  the  house  of  Dr. 
Armand  Thibodeaux.  It  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  the 
water  of  the  bayou  was  like  a  silver  mirror,  occasionally 
ruffled  by  a  bit  of  floating  lily  drift.  The  shell  road  about 
the  bay  gleamed  in  a  white  crescent;  and  within  the 
grounds  of  the  mansions  of  Lily  City  the  black  shadows 
of  trees  lay  like  islands  upon  a  sea  of  silver  light. 

Stephen  entered  the  doctor's  gallery  and  knocked 
lightly  at  the  door  marked  Office.  Through  the  screen 
door  he  could  see  the  little  doctor  as  he  had  first  beheld 
him,  stretched  out  in  the  deck  chair,  the  inevitable  holder 
and  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  and  his  attention  apparently 
concentrated  upon  the  hideous  gargoyle  Solomon,  which 


94  TWISTED  TRAILS 

leered  down  from  the  wall.     By  no  sign  did  the  doctor 
indicate  that  he  had  heard.     So  Stephen  said : 
"Pardon  me,  doctor,  are  you  busy?" 
"As  you  see,"  came  the  instant  response. 
"I  don't  wish  to  intrude." 
"But  you  do,  nevertheless,  being  a  Yankee." 
"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  a  little  nettled,  "I  do— being  a 
Yankee.     And  you,  being  a  physician,   ought  to  turn 
round  and  ask  what's  the  matter  when  a  potential  patient 
presents  himself." 

"You  are  not  a  potential  patient/* 
"How  do  you  know  ?    You  haven't  seen  me." 
"Do  you  think  I  am  a  child,  that  I  must  see  with  the 
eyes?"  demanded  the  doctor  impatiently.     "I  have  ears. 
I  can  hear.     I  heard  your  step  upon  the  gallery  and  your 
knock.     I  hear  your  voice  now.     You  do  not  need  or 
desire  medical  assistance." 

"Guilty !"  laughed  Warren.     "I  want  to  talk  with  you 
about  Black  Woods." 

"I  am  not  interested.  Speak  to  the  Martels." 
"I  did,"  said  Stephen;  and  he  told  of  how  he  had 
bargained  for  Black  Woods  and  of  Pierre  Martel's  weird 
refusal  at  the  end.  He  had  meant  to  speak  of  the 
strange  clause  in  the  option,  but  the  words  stuck.  After 
all,  he  would  not  bring  her  into  his  business. 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  waited  until  the  tale  was  ended 

before  moving.     Then  he  twisted  himself   round   and 

stared  at  his  visitor  for  a  moment.     The  deck  chair  flew 

into  a  corner,  the  doctor  lit  on  his  feet  before  Stephen. 

"Come !"  said  he,  grasping  the  young  man's  arm.    "We 


TWISTED  TRAILS  95 

can  speak  better  outdoors.  You  have  asked,  and  I  will 
tell  you  something  about  the  Martels.  At  night,  that  is 
the  time  to  talk  of  them,  and  in  the  dark.  It  comports 
itself  with  the  dark,  unhappy  Martel  soul." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  led  the  way  through  the  house  and 
through  a  rear  door  into  a  garden  thickly  planted  with 
rosebushes.  In  the  heart  of  the  garden  was  a  tiny  pa- 
goda, and  from  it,  through  a  vista  in  the  bushes,  was  to 
be  seen  a  streak  of  moonlight  on  the  bayou  and  its  float- 
ing lilies.  As  they  seated  themselves  the  doctor  again 
laid  his  hand  on  Stephen's  arm,  after  the  manner  of  a 
scientist  carelessly  interested  in  the  appraisal  of  mildly 
interesting  material. 

"Yes,  yes,  a  very  fine  male  specimen  of  the  two-legged 
animal — of  the  alleged  civilized  type,"  said  he.  "Among 
my  old  friends,  the  Marquesas  Islanders,  the  young 
women  would  scarcely  look  at  you.  My  young  friend, 
I  wonder  if  you  know  anything  worth  knowing?  At 
first  sight  of  you  I  seemed  to  see  comprehension  in  your 
eyes.  I  wonder  if  I  am  right?  What  have  you  in  that 
head  of  yours?  Is  there  in  it  any  true  comprehension 
of  life?  Any  real  intelligence?  Or  merely  the  usual 
dreary  storehouse  of  alleged  facts  with  which  the  white 
man  drugs  his  immortal  soul  down  to  the  sad  levels  of 
civilization,  and  which  he  calls  education?  Listen,  Yan- 
kee, I  have  seen  a  Kanaka  pilot,  to  whom  you  would  be 
a  plaything,  kicked  out  of  a  whaleboat  for  being  a  weak- 
ling; and  a  sacred  llama,  at  whose  feet  I  sat  respect- 
fully, scourged  from  a  Tibetan  monastery  for  a  fool. 
Shall  I  tell  you  the  great  difference  between  the  civilized 


96  TWISTED  TRAILS 

white  man  and  the  alleged  savage?  It  is  that  the  sav- 
age is  not  a  hypocrite.  And  the  most  savage  animal  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  ?  It  is  the  educated,  civilized  white 
man  on  the  trail  of  money." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  placed  a  new  cigarette  in  the  long 
holder,  and  blew  out  a  fresh  puff  of  smoke. 

"What  an  ass  is  man!"  he  broke  out  enthusiastically. 
"He  makes  a  virtue  of  movement,  of  travel.  He  pur- 
sues the  thing  which  does  not  exist,  the  reward  which  his 
instincts  promise  him.  He  is  so  self-important  that  he 
considers  it  important  that  he  must  move  about  on  the 
earth  and  see  with  his  own  eyes." 

"Referring  to  me,  doctor?"  chuckled  Warren. 

"Referring  to  myself,  Yankee.  See  what  comes  of 
it.  If  I  had  remained  here  on  the  bayou,  keeping  slug- 
gish Cajun  livers  properly  agitated  with  proper  doses  of 
calomel,  I  would  naturally  have  assumed  my  proper  re- 
sponsibilities, and  I,  instead  of  Pierre  Martel,  would 
have  been  the  guardian  of  my  niece,  my  sister's  daugh- 
ter, Estella  Reid.  But,  no.  I  am  one  of  those  who  must 
see  the  great  world.  I  must  go  here  and  there,  must 
live  in  the  tents  of  all  sorts  of  people — black,  red,  yellow 
— must  see  them  at  peace  and  at  war,  at  work  and  at 
love.  I  must  adventure.  So  I  do  just  that.  It  has 
been  my  life,  until  I  have  satisfied  my  colossal  curiosity 
and  acquired  common  sense.  Then  I  come  home  and 
cultivate  my  roses.  I  assure  you  they  are  much  more 
worth  while  than  man.  But  then  it  is  too  late." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HAT  is  too  late ?"  asked  Stephen  to  break  the  long 
pause    that    followed;    but    Doctor    Thibodeaux 
waited  until  the  mood  moved  him  before  continuing. 

"While  I  am  busily  poking  my  nose  into  the  tents  of 
far-away  tribes  the  call  of  duty  to  my  own — my  sister 
and  her  flesh  and  blood — sounded,  and  I  was  not  here  to 
answer  it.  While  I  am  away  my  sister  is  married  to  a 
Northerner  named  Thomas  Reid.  He  dies,  and  my  sis- 
ter also;  there  is  left  alone  the  daughter,  my  niece — 
Estella.  Pierre  Martel,  the  grand  seigneur  of  the  par- 
ish, is  appointed  her  guardian;  and  all  because  a  fool, 
named  Armand  Thibodeaux,  in  his  young  days  had  the 
restless  feet. 

"Of  course,  it  is  not  to  be  said  that  I  would  have  been 
a  more  businesslike  manager  than  old  Martel.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  do  not  gamble — not  since  I  have  discovered 
the  thrill  of  growing  roses.  Pierre  Martel — all  the  Mar- 
tels — gamble  as  you  breathe.  They  have  been  masters  so 
long  it  is  natural  for  them  to  feel  all  things  should  obey 
their  whims,  the  whirl  of  a  little  ball  on  a  wheel,  a 
horse  on  a  track,  a  card  in  a  box  or  pack.  But  these 
things  have  whims  of  their  own." 

He  flipped  the  cigarette  out  of  the  holder  with  an  im- 
patient twist  of  his  wrist. 

97 


98  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Five  years  ago,"  he  broke  out  suddenly.  "Estella 
was  fifteen  then.  That  was  when  I  came  back  to  the 
bayou.  She  was  bare-footed,  she  was  bare-legged,  and 
it  was  morning.  She  was  sitting  on  a  log  down  there 
by  the  lily  bed  fishing  for  catfish  in  the  bay.  Wild? 
The  eagles  in  the  swamp  are  no  wilder.  That  was  how 
they  had  let  her  grow  up — the  Martels.  Can  one  have 
money  to  waste  on  one's  ward  when  the  little  ball  on 
the  roulette  wheel  or  the  horses  on  the  track  or  the  card 
in  the  faro  box  refuse  to  obey  one's  imperious  will? 
First  the  elder  Martel,  then  young  Georges,  the  son.  It 
has  been  a  heavy  load  for  the  property  to  carry.  First 
the  Martel  property  went;  it  is  mortgaged  as  far  as  it 
will  go.  Then — Estella's — the  child's. 

"Fifteen  she  was,  a  child,  but  beautiful.  Her  skirt 
reached  only  to  her  knees,  and  her  long  round  legs  were 
sunburned  and  scratched  by  briars.  It  was  summer  then, 
but  in  the  autumn  she  was  to  have  a  long  dress,  and 
stockings  and  shoes.  Yes,  yes,  yes ;  in  the  autumn.  For 
then  they  were  going  to  send  her  to  the  convent.  She 
was  to  have  one  year  of  it — before  becoming  the  bride 
of  Georges  Martel. 

"You  see,  my  young  friend,  when  one  has  done  queer 
little  tricks  with  a  property  it  is  prudent  and  convenient 
to  have  the  ward  become  a  member  of  the  family.  So 
they  were  going  to  put  her  in  the  convent  for  one  year, 
and  then,  having  grown  old  enough,  she  would  have  been 
marched  to  the  altar  and" — his  thin  brown  hand  flashed 
up,  tore  a  rose  from  its  stem  and  crushed  it  ruthlessly — 
"like  that.  But  you  see,  I  did  come  back.  Just  in  time. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  99 

Had  I  been  the  proper  type  I  would  have  come  back 
with  money.  Having  no  money  I  made  use  of  what  I 
had.  That  was  a  complete  disregard  for  the  life  of  an 
enemy,  and  not  a  too  high  regard  for  my  own.  It  is  the 
latter,  young  man,  I  assure  you,  that  is  the  sword.  The 
Martels  possess  the  first  of  these  qualities  but  not  the 
latter.  So  I  took  Estella  from  them." 

"Bully!"  cried  Steppy. 

The  doctor  turned  upon  him  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"You  find  something  to  admire  in  that,  my  young 
friend?" 

"Great!    Go  on." 

"I  am  a  good  raconteur,  then?"  dallied  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  come  on!"  said  Warren  impatiently.  "What 
did  they  do?" 

"They  did — nothing.  It  had  come  to  that  point  where 
men  who  appraised  their  own  lives  a  little  too  highly 
could  do — nothing.  I  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Es- 
tella, and  I  had  said  that  the  flame  in  them  should  not 
be  snuffed  out  by  the  walls  of  the  convent  and  the  arms 
of  Georges  Martel.  Not  at  least  until  the  mind  was 
grown,  and  the  girl  could  understand  and  choose  for  her- 
self. 

"Thus  I  had  something  to  make  money  for,  so  I 
began  to  practice  again.  It  is  the  one  thing  in  my  life 
I  have  done  as  it  should  be  done.  The  sick  Cajuns  of 
the  parish  did  not  know  why  I  made  them  pay  so 
promptly.  Other  doctors  did  not  know  why  I  worked 
so  hard.  Five  years  in  a  Northern  school.  It  costs 
money.  Gowns — could  I  have  her  poorly  dressed  ?  She 


100  TWISTED  TRAILS 

had  displayed  her  scratched,  brown  legs  long  enough. 
And  now  she  is  home,  and  the  Martels  are  after  her 
again.  It  seems  that  it  is  very  important  that  Georges 
marries  her.  If  he  does,  I  presume  they  will  patch  up 
something  by  throwing  both  properties  into  one,  sacri- 
ficing Estella's  perhaps  to  save  their  own." 

He  paused  abruptly,  pulled  down  a  small  rose,  sniffed 
it,  and  let  it  fly  back  while  he  lay  in  his  chair,  staring 
straight  up  at  the  dark  sky. 

"Was  her  father  a  good  business  man?"  asked 
Stephen  after  a  pause. 

The  doctor  sat  up.  "Why  in  the  name  of  all  the 
devils  of  civilization  did  you  ask  that?"  he  demanded. 
"That  is  what  has  been  puzzling  me.  Thomas  Reid  was 
a  good  business  man.  He  turned  the  old  plantation 
here  into  a  gold  mine.  He  was  method  itself.  And  yet 
he  left  things  as  he  did — entirely  in  Martel's  charge.  Is 
it  comprehensible  to  you?" 

"Of  course,  he  left  papers  if  he  was  a  business  man," 
said  Stephen. 

"That  is  what  I  have  told  myself,"  rejoined  the  doc- 
tor, "but  he  did  not — nothing.  I  cannot  understand  it 
that  Reid  should  not  have  left  my  sister  and  the  child 
properly  provided  for.  It  was  not  in  keeping  with  his 
character.  Something  has  been  lost  or  hidden — or 
stolen.  Yankee,  what  did  old  Martel  look  like  when  he 
gave  back  your  money  and  said  no?" 

"He  looked  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost,"  said  Stephen. 

"Perhaps  he  did,  who  knows?  A  guilty  conscience 
may  produce  the  effect  of  hallucinations,  and  the  con- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  101 

science  of  Pierre  Mart  el  must  be  black,  if  he  has  one. 
Let  us  sum  up:  There  is  my  niece's  ruined  property, 
which  should  be  worth  a  fortune;  there  is  Pierre  Martel 
as  her  guardian,  and  Pierre  Martel  is  in  the  clutches  of 
Felix  Dautrive,  the  money  lender.  And  now  we  have 
the  Snake — and  a  ghost.  What  a  pretty  little  devil's 
brew  it  is,  to  be  sure!"  * 

"The  Snake?  You  mean  this  outlaw?  What  in  the 
world  has  he  to  do  with  this,  doctor?" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  turned  to  Stephen  as  if  he  had 
just  become  conscious  of  his  presence. 

"You  are  going  to  remain  in  Lily  City,  Mr.  Warren  ?" 
he  asked  formally. 

"Yes." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  was  suddenly  up  on  his  feet. 

"Good  night,  Yankee,"  said  he.  "Go  home  and  pon- 
der upon  the  wicked  greediness  of  man.  I  return  to 
my  communion  with  my  honest  friend  Solomon.  Solo- 
mon has  no  illusions,  therefore  I  can  endure  his  com- 
pany with  pleasure." 

"By  the  way,  doctor,"  interposed  Stephen,  "I've  been 
wondering  why  you  have  spoken  to  me,  a  stranger,  like 
this?" 

"Why  did  you  come  to  me  and  ask — you  a  stranger 
to  me?" 

"Business.  I  am  interested  in  Black  Woods — in  a 
business  way." 

"You  man,"  said  Dr.  Thibodeaux  emphatically,  "your 
education  has  failed  you.  It  has  not  taught  you  how  to 
lie.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HTERRY  McGURK  had  not  been  idle.  Neither  had 
he  gone  to  the  bookmakers  with  the  hundred  dol- 
lars given  him  by  Stephen,  as  might  have  been  sup- 
posed. Temptation  had  whispered  seductively,  as  it  al- 
ways whispered  when  he  felt  money  crinkling  in  his 
pocket,  but  he  had  resisted  with  an  effort.  Terry  had 
worked  at  a  regular  occupation  as  time-keeper  at  Lily 
City  Mill  for  several  weeks  and  to  his  sporting  spirit, 
accustomed  to  the  irregular,  if  precarious,  existence  of 
the  race-track  follower,  the  regular  hours,  the  steady 
task,  the  responsibility  were  as  the  walls  and  bars  of  a 
prison.  For  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  Nailer  would 
he  have  submitted  himself  to  the  trying  ordeal  of  steady 
work ;  for  no  one  else  would  he  have  resisted  the  tempta- 
tion to  begin  at  once  the  problematical  but  thrilling  ven- 
ture of  running  a  hundred  dollars  up  to  a  bank  roll. 
But  all  men  have  a  fetish  before  which  they  serve,  and 
to  hard,  weazened,  little  Terry  McGurk  the  unproved  bay 
colt  served  as  this  symbol.  He  had  said  that  he  owned 
Nailer,  but  he  would  have  been  more  accurate  had  he 
admitted  that  Nailer  owned  him.  The  colt  represented 
the  only  ideal  the  boy  had  ever  known,  a  perfect  race- 
horse. The  world  might  scoff  at  Nailer,  and  did;  at 
least  such  small  part  of  it  as  was  aware  of  his  existence. 

102 


TWISTED  TRAILS  103 

Horses  which  were  no  better  than  rank  second  raters 
might  race  him  off  his  feet  and  show  him  the  way  to  the 
wire ;  it  made  no  difference  to  Terry.  His  faith  was  too 
deep,  too  instinctive  to  be  ruffled  even.  In  the  presence 
of  the  horse  he  renewed  his  faith  after  each  discourage- 
ment; with  each  set-back  the  determination  to  prove 
the  quality  of  the  colt  grew  a  little  firmer.  Nor  was  it 
selfishness  which  prompted  and  confirmed  Terry  in  this 
resolution.  None  knew  better  than  he  the  wealth  and 
fame  which  would  accrue  to  him  as  the  owner  if,  rather 
when,  Nailer  should  race  according  to  his  expectations. 
But  though  Terry  appreciated  to  the  ultimate  the  pleas- 
ures of  life  which  money  may  purchase,  it  was  not  for 
the  sake  of  himself  but  Nailer  that  he  resolved  to  bring 
the  horse  into  his  own ;  and  only  he  who  has  loved  a  race- 
horse will  understand  why. 

Therefore,  the  book  makers  saw  none  of  the  hundred 
dollars  in  Terry's  pocket.  He  paid  the  board  bill  of 
Nailer,  bought  an  extra  blanket  from  a  trainer,  and 
turned  his  back  upon  the  track  and  New  Orleans. 

On  the  morning  after  Stephen's  visit  to  Dr.  Thibo- 
deaux  the  way- freight  shunted  a  box  car  down  the  sid- 
ing to  the  white-washed  cattle  chute  at  Lily  City  and  a 
grimy,  weary  little  figure  emerged  from  the  side  door 
leading  a  weary,  beaten  looking  horse.  Truly  it  was 
no  impressive  appearance  that  Terry  and  Nailer  made 
upon  their  arrival  at  Lily  City.  A  day  and  a  night  in 
a  box-car  had  not  tended  to  improve  Nailer's  health  and 
spirits,  and  as  for  Terry  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes  the 
night  through.  The  colt  stood  with  uncertain  legs  on 


104  TWISTED  TRAILS 

,the  soft  black  ground  beside  the  tracks  and  hung  his 
'head  with  weariness.  The  clean  sun  and  air,  the  thick 
green  grass  at  his  feet,  and  the  quiet  and  peace  of  his 
new  surroundings  failed  to  arouse  in  him  one  discernible 
trace  of  interest.  He  turned  a  soft,  mournful  eye  on 
Terry,  and  Terry,  smitten  to  the  heart,  looked  away. 

"Hey!     There  ain't  any  glue  factory  here." 

Terry  jumped  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him  foully 
from  behind.  The  descent  of  the  horse  at  the  cattle 
chute  had  attracted  a  trickling  of  loafers  from  the  sta- 
tion with  Sheriff  Pete  Martel  and  his  attenuated  deputy, 
Lejeune,  in  the  lead.  " 

"Mebbe  you  figure  on  starting  a  glue  factory  over  at 
the  Mill?"  continued  the  Sheriff,  in  the  character  of  a 
wit  before  his  toadies. 

"No,"  snapped  Terry,  "I  brought  him  out  here  to  catch 
The  Snake." 

The  Sheriff  was  taken  aback,  but  he  countered : 

"Going  to  turn  detective,  kid?" 

"Not  me,"  said  Terry.  "Jackasses  haven't  made  good, 
so  I  thought  something  with  horse  sense  might  be  a 
help." 

"Don't  get  smart,  kid,"  growled  Pete :  "whatever  you 
do,  don't  try  to  get  smart  with  me." 

"And  don't  you  get  to  talking  'glue'  about  my  horse!" 
flared  Terry.  "Nobody's  going  to  knock  that  horse, 
don't  care  who  he  is?" 

"You  allow  that  it  is  a  horse,  do  you,  Terry?" 
drawled  Lejeune  good-humoredly. 

"Oh,    hello,    Lejeune;    that    you?"    greeted    Terry. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  105 

"Thought  it  was  a  fishpole  somebody  had  stuck  in  the 
ground." 

"You  shore'll  have  to  stuff  a  right  smart  of  feed  into 
that  bone-bag  to  make  it  look  like  an  animal,  Terry." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Not  any  more  than  it  would  take 
to  make  you  look  human." 

"You  better  get  him  out  of  here  if  he  can  move,"  said 
the  Sheriff.  "If  he  dies  here  I'll  run  you  in  and  it  will 
cost  you  to  have  him  hauled  away." 

A  terrible,  bleak  smile  spread  across  Terry's  hard 
mouth  as  he  sought  for  words  strong  enough  to  reply 
and  failed.  Nailer,  hearing  the  harsh  voice  and  sensing 
the  sheriff's  threatening  presence,  laid  back  his  small 
shapely  ears  and  raised  a  hind  hoof  suggestively. 

"Hey,  Nailer,  Nailer!"  cried  Terry,  pulling  him  for- 
ward. "Come  away  from  there!  Want  to  go  spoil- 
ing your  feet?" 

Heartened  a  little  by  the  conviction  that  he  had  not 
come  off  second  best  in  this  chaste  and  elegant  exchange 
of  repartee  Terry  turned  his  back  upon  the  sheriff  and 
set  forth,  leading  Nailer,  to  find  Warren. 

He  was  sorely  disappointed.  Warren  was  only 
mildly  interested  in  the  advent  of  Nailer. 

"That's  so,"  he  recalled,  "you  said  you  were  going 
to  train  him  over  here.  If  it  interferes  with  your  job 
you'll  have  to  make  room  for  a  new  time-keeper." 

Terry  puzzled  desperately  for  some  time  over  the  al- 
tered attitude  of  his  benefactor  before  the  light  of  under- 
standing flashed  over  him.  The  Big  Fellow  was  on  the 
job;  that  was  the  difference.  All  right;  he  would  get 


106  TWISTED  TRAILS 

on  the  job,  too.  Nailer  went  into  the  livery  stable  for 
the  day  and  Terry  went  back  to  the  slavery  of  work. 
When  evening  came  he  sped  for  the  barn  and  to  his  re- 
lief found  Nailer  beginning  to  evince  an  interest  in  his 
oats.  The  peace  and  quiet  of  his  new  surroundings  had 
proved  so  beneficial  to  the  bay  that,  colt  like,  he  pranced 
about  at  Terry's  appearance,  impatient  at  being  impris- 
oned in  the  stall  all  day. 

Terry  never  tired  of  feasting  his  eyes  upon  Nailer, 
of  following  the  lines  of  his  perfect  conformation,  from 
the  delicacy  of  the  nostrils  to  the  hang  of  the  tail,  or 
of  noting  the  fire  in  the  racer's  eye.  The  horse  was  to 
him  a  dream — nay,  a  thousand  dreams! — come  true. 
And  this  specimen  of  perfection  was  his,  Terry  Mc- 
Gurk's,  to  care  for,  to  nurse  and  to  bring  into  his  own, 
and  to  profit  by.  The  reflection  always  made  him  feel 
humble.  Reverently  he  saddled  the  colt,  mounted,  and 
rode  forth.  The  evening  shadows  were  lengthening,  and 
the  heat  of  the  day  had  given  way  to  a  suggestion  of 
coolness.  A  pair  of  saddle  fillies  stood  tied  before  a 
store,  and  the  colt,  catching  the  scented  air  in  his  nostrils, 
threw  up  his  head  and  gave  vent  to  a  trumpeted  whinny 
which  shattered  the  evening  peace  with  the  imperious 
message  that  a  young  thoroughbred  stallion  was  among 
those  present. 

Terry  turned  the  colt's  head  away  from  the  little  street 
by  the  bayou  and  rode  beneath  the  arched  magnolia  on 
the  way  toward  the  open  country.  Nailer  was  content 
to  go  at  a  walk,  and  by  this  Terry  knew  how  poor  was 
his  condition.  But  there  was  a  whole  winter,  in  which 


TWISTED  TRAILS  107 

Nailer  would  have  nothing  to  do  but  browse  in  the  favor- 
able climate  of  Lily  City,  and  grow  strong  for  the  Mardi 
Gras  Handicap.  He  would  not  be  ready  for  training 
for  several  weeks  to  come.  Then  Terry  would  start  him 
off  with  light  work-outs  to  harden  him  for  the  serious 
conditioning  to  come,  and  two  weeks  before  the  Mardi 
Gras  he  would  go  to  New  Orleans  into  the  expert  hands 
of  Pop  Daly  for  a  final  polishing  off  for  the  great  con- 
test. 

Terry  thrilled  at  the  thought  and  sat  up  with  a  jerk. 
He  was  passing  the  gloomy  grounds  of  the  Martel  place 
and  in  the  stately  white  house  hidden  behind  a  great 
hedge  lights  were  gleaming.  Terry  pulled  up.  He  had 
not  realized  that  it  was  growing  so  late.  As  he  pre- 
pared to  turn  about  a  dog  bayed  savagely  on  the  lawn. 
It  was  Herod,  the  great  boar-hound  which  Terry  knew 
was  kept  locked  in  the  house  when  Georges  was  away. 

"That  you,  Pete?"  came  Georges'  voice  from  the 
gloom  near  the  veranda. 

"No,"  said  Terry,  a  little  shaken. 

He  swung  round  and  sent  Nailer  back  toward  town 
at  the  trot.  At  the  stable  he  was  greeted  by  Lejeune 
who  from  a  comfortable  rest  on  an  upturned  bucket 
grinned  up  in  friendly  fashion. 

"I  believe  he  is  a  horse,  after  all,  Terry,"  said  the 
deputy  as  Terry  dismounted.  "He  shore  looks  a  lot 
better'n  he  did  this  morning." 

"Does  he?"  demanded  Terry  eagerly. 

"Shore  does.  He's  picked  up  fast.  Do  you  own  him, 
or  does  that  new  mill-boss.  Warren,  own  him?" 


108  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"I  do." 

Lejeune  scratched  his  head. 

"Shore  seems  to  me  somebody  did  say  Warren  was 
a  horseman." 

"Nope,"  said  Terry,  "he  ain't." 

"Know  him  well,  do  you,  Terry?" 

"Who— Mr.  Warren?     Oh,  so  so." 

"I  mean  do  you  know  anything  about  where  he  come 
from  and  how  come  he's  over  here?" 

Terry  was  in  the  act  of  hanging  Nailer's  bridle  on 
the  peg  beside  the  stall  and  for  the  first  time  he  sensed 
that  there  was  something  unusual  about  Lejeune's  speech 
and  conduct.  There  was  a  directness  and  an  air  of  pur- 
pose about  Lejeune  which  sat  uncomfortably  upon  him, 
and  Terry  debated  his  answer  while  hanging  up  the 
bridle. 

"Oh,  I  know  a  few  things  about  him,"  said  he  cas- 
ually. 

"Know  what  he  was  doing  before  he  came  here?" 

Again  Terry  debated. 

"Lumbering." 

"Know  how  he  happened  to  come  here?" 

"Hartland  sent  for  him." 

"Got  any  idea  what  he  was  doing  down  there  in  the 
swamp  the  other  day?" 

"Cruising  timber." 

Lejeune  uncrossed  and  recrossed  his  long  legs. 

"You'n  me  are  friends,  you  know,  Terry,"  said  he. 
"I  just  got  sort  of  curious.  Do  you  reckon  he's  a  de- 
tective?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  109 

"Him — the  Big  Fellow — a  dick?"  exploded  Terry. 
"How  do  you  get  that  way  ?  No !  He's  mill-boss ;  ain't 
that  good  enough  for  you.  He's  the  works.  Think  any 
dick  living  has  got  brains  enough  to  run  a  saw-mill  like 
Hartland's?  I  should  say  not!!  If  he  did  he  wouldn't 
be  a  dick." 

"Reckon  that's  right,  too,  mebbe,"  chuckled  Lejeune 
rising.  "Shore  sounds  like  sense." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Lejeune."  Terry's  mind  was  work- 
ing rapidly.  There  was  something  behind  this  and  if  it 
concerned  the  Big  Fellow  it  was  his  duty  to  try  to  find 
out.  Therefore  he  wickedly  took  advantage  of  the 
lanky  deputy's  known  weakness.  "I  was  just  going 
down  to  Bicou's  and  get  a  bite  to  eat." 

Lejeune  paused.     He  looked  at  Terry  sadly. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  tell  me  that  and  make  me  feel 
bad?"  he  said  mournfully. 

"You  look  sort  of  empty  yourself,  Lejeune." 

"Shore  am." 

"You  look  as  if  you  could  put  away  a  little  bite  your- 
self." 

"Shore  could." 

"Well,  come  along  and  keep  me  company,"  said  Terry 
artfully.  "I  got  a  piece  of  coin  and  I  hate  to  eat  alone." 

The  restaurant  of  Lafayette  Bicou,  Fish  a  Specialty, 
was  an  old  house-boat  moored  on  the  bayou  front,  and 
here  Terry  McGurk  guilefully,  with  the  aid  of  Bicou's 
crisp  brown  catfish,  proceeded  to  lay  snares  for  the  heart 
and  confidences  of  the  impressionable  Lejeune.  When 
he  was  hungry,  and  he  was  always  so,  food  was  to 


110  TWISTED  TRAILS 

young  Lejeune  something  akin  to  what  whiskey  is  to 
the  drunkard.  He  could  not  resist  it  when  put  before 
him;  he  would  never  refuse  it  when  offered;  and  its  con- 
sumption seemed  to  create  in  him  only  an  insatiable 
yearning  for  more.  At  the  sight  of  him  stooping  to 
enter  the  low  door  of  the  house-boat  the  pudgy  face  of 
Lafayette  Bicou,  the  proprietor,  grew  morose  and  truc- 
ulent. 

"Lejeune,  you  owe  me  eight  bits,"  said  he  ominously. 

"That's  all  right,  Lafe,"  said  Terry  easily.  "Le- 
Jeune's  going  to  have  a  bite  with  me." 

"You  going  to  pay?" 

"Sure." 

"For  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Let  me  see  your  money!" 

Satisfied  of  Terry's  solvency  Bicou  retired  to  his  skil- 
lets and  began  to  fry  fish,  saying  with  a  glance  at  Le- 
jeune: "Tell  me  when  to  stop." 

"Needn't  stop  on  my  account,  Lafe,"  chuckled  Le- 
jeune. "Just  keep  right  on  frying." 

"When  did  the  Martels  get  back?"  asked  Terry  cas- 
ually when  the  meal  was  before  them. 

"This  afternoon,"  replied  the  deputy. 

"What  happened  to  'em?  They  came  back  all  of  a 
sudden,  didn't  they?" 

Lejeune  was  too  busily  engaged  with  serious  matters 
to  reply. 

"They  had  intended  to  stay  over  till  the  Mississippi 
Stakes  and  that  isn't  till  day  after  to-morrow." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  111 

It  would  have  been  physically  impossible  for  Lejeune 
to  have  spoken  without  danger  of  choking  and  he  was 
in  no  mind  to  expose  himself  to  such  a  risk. 

"How  did  they  come  to  suspect  that  Warren  is  a  de- 
tective?" demanded  Terry  sharply. 

"Didn't  know  they  did,  Terry." 

"Who  told  you  to  feel  me  out  about  him?" 

"Pete — Pete  Martel."     Terry  pondered  a  moment. 

"Was  Pete  up  to  Martel's  since  they  came  back  ?" 

A  nod  answered  the  question  in  the  affirmative. 

"And  then  Pete  came  to  you  and  sent  you  fishing 
round  me?" 

Another  nod.  Lejeune  was  too  blissfully  occupied  to 
be  conscious  that  he  was  telling  secrets.  Further  than 
this,  however,  he  could  not -go  for  the  simple  reason  that 
the  sheriff  had  volunteered  no  information  beyond  his 
simple  instructions.  Terry  sought  in  vain  to  discover 
why  the  sheriff  or  the  Martels  might  be  interested  in  the 
possibility  of  Warren  being  a  detective  but  though  Le- 
jeune under  the  soothing  influence  of  a  vast  meal  was 
pathetically  eager  to  make  such  returns  as  might  be  in 
his  power  he  could  tell  no  more. 

"What  would  an  outside  detective  be  doing  down 
here?"  persisted  Terry.  "What's  there  going  on  down 

here He  sat  bolt  upright  as  a  thought  leaped  into 

his  mind. 

"The  Snake!" 

Deputy  Lejeune  grinned  lazily. 

"There's  several  detectives  been  looking  for  him,"  said 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

he,  "but  we've  managed  to  keep  'em  away  from  Lily 
City  so  far." 

"Keep  them  away?     What  for?" 

"I  donno.  Sheriff  does  it.  Wants  his  chance  at  the 
reward,  I  reckon." 

"I  see,"  said  Terry.  "And  if  the  Big  Fellow  was — 
but  he  ain't.  But  if  he  was,  say  Pete  Martel  would  look 
purty  trying  to  make  him  move  on!" 

"Yes,v  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  paid  the  bill,  "and 
any  time  you  catch  me  feeding  you  again  you'll  know  it, 
you — you  big  ostrich  in  pants!" 


CHAPTER  XV 


unseasonable  period  of  summerlike  weather 
continued.  Though  the  calendar  reprovingly  called 
attention  to  the  fact  that  Autumn  was  passing  and  win- 
ter drawing  near,  the  Sayou  country  refused  to  acknowl- 
edge that  a  year  was  drawing  to  its  close.  It  played  that 
it  was  still  Spring  and  that  Spring  always  would  remain. 
In  more  sober  lands  the  stern  season  was  enforcing  its 
might,  as  the  incoming  flight  of  wild-fowl  testified,  but 
on  the  shores  of  Lily  Bayou  the  humming  birds  still 
throbbed  musically  above  the  hearts  of  the  roses. 

Stephen  sat  at  a  desk  in  the  office  of  the  Hartland 
Lumber  Company  and  worked  with  Octave  Landry  in 
the  preparation  of  company  pay-roll.  It  was  pay  day  for 
the  mill  hands,  and  the  money  was  due  on  the  morning 
train.  Stephen's  desk  faced  the  window  which  looked 
directly  out  upon  the  lily  sprinkled  waters  of  the  bayou. 
A  bland,  springlike  sun  flooded  the  scene  with  warmth, 
Not  a  breath  of  breeze  was  stirring,  and  the  lilies  and 
shrubs  and  trees  along  the  shore  were  mirrored  perfectly 
in  the  motionless  waters  of  the  bay.  From  the  mill  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bayou  came  the  musical  drone  and 
whine  of  the  flashing  saws,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  bay 
a  green-painted  sailing  pirogue,  its  green  sail  hanging 
idle,  was  lying  becalmed.  Warren  was  too  deeply  DC- 

US 


114.  TWISTED  TRAILS 

cupied  with  his  task  to  pay  any  attention  to  the  scene; 
for  while  Octave  Landry  was  a  good  fellow  and  a  per- 
fect little  gentleman,  his  capacity  as  a  bookkeeper  indi- 
cated room  for  improvement 

"Hark!"  said  Octave  suddenly,  blissfully  ignorant  of 
the  thoughts  in  his  superior's  mind. 

Some  one  was  singing  out  on  the  bayou,  and  the  song 
drifted  faintly  through  the  screened  door  and  windows 
of  the  office. 

"Zephine,  the  world  grows  old;  never  again  this  hour; 
Never  again  this  moon  sludl  gleam  for  us  as  now. 
Zephine,  my  heart  is  faint;  calls  to  your  heart  for  hope. 
Zephine,  the  world  grows  old; 
Come,  let  our  hearts  be  young!" 

It  was  Estella  Reid.  She  was  sitting  at  the  rudder 
of  her  pirogue  patiently  waiting  a  breeze  and  apparently 
not  in  the  least  concerned  whether  it  came  or  not.  A 
great  mass  of  wild  hyacinths  was  drifting  down  the 
bayou.  It  moved  slowly,  its  tiny  blue  flowers  erect  in 
the  dense  tangle  of  foliage,  but  it  moved  irresistibly,  and 
its  course  carried  it  straight  toward  the  becalmed  pirogue. 

"She  came  back  last  night,"  said  Octave.  "I  tell  you 
what,  Mr.  Warren;  I  shore  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  we 
soon  have  a  wedding  round  here.  That  Georges  Martel 
is  shore  one  lucky  fellow." 

"Better  foot  that  column  again,  Octave,"  said  Stephen, 
tossing  a  sheet  of  figures  across  the  desk.  He  turned 


TWISTED  TRAILS  115 

back  to  his  task.     Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked 
out  upon  the  bayou. 

"Zephine  the  world  grows — — '' 


The  song  broke  off  abruptly.  The  oncoming  mass  of 
lily  drift  had  intruded  itself  upon  the  singer's  vision  and 
she  sat  up  suddenly  and  bent  forward.  Stephen 
watched,  expecting  to  see  the  flash  of  a  paddle  and  the 
pirogue  shooting  forward  out  of  the  course  of  the  float- 
ing foliage.  Instead  the  girl  straightened  up  with  a 
gesture  of  irritation.  For  a  moment  she  looked  round 
as  if  seeking  something,  then  with  a  glance  at  the  ap- 
proaching lily  drift  she  began  to  paddle  with  her  bare 
hands.  The  effort  came  a  trifle  too  late.  An  outspread- 
ing lily  root  under  water  caught  and  held  the  bow  of 
the  pirogue. 

She  attempted  to  back  water,  but  another  concealed 
root  was  at  the  stern.  For  a  moment  she  struggled  vig- 
orously with  her  hands  to  free  the  craft,  but  the  move- 
ment of  the  floating  mass  of  foliage  was  insistent.  It 
pressed  on,  nestling  about  the  little  craft  and  holding  it 
broadside  to  the  current.  Presently  she  gave  up  the 
struggle  and  with  a  laugh  settled  herself  comfortably  in 
the  stern  while  the  blue-flowered  lily  drift  carried  her 
slowly  away  downstream. 

"Octave,"  said  Stephen,  "you'd  better  hop  into  a 
pirogue  and  go  out  and  give  her  a  hand." 

"Me — in  a  pirogue,  Mr.  Warren  ?  I  ain't  no  pirogue- 
runner.  I'd  tip  over." 


116  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Warren  watched  the  helpless  craft  for  awhile  as  it 
was  dragged  downstream  by  the  drift  and  laid  down 
his  work. 

His  pirogue  lay  tied  to  the  tiny  dock  before  the  of- 
fice building,  and  soon  the  light  dugout  was  leaping  be- 
neath the  drive  of  his  paddle.  Seeing  him  come,  she 
called  crisply : 

"There's  no  hurry.  I'm  quite  comfortable,  I  assure 
you." 

The  coldness  of  her  tone  kept  him  silent. 

"I  merely  forgot  my  paddle,"  she  said. 

He  nodded. 

"The  breeze  died  down  as  I  was  beating  back  to  the 
dock.  I  thought  I  might  float  in  but  along  came  this 
floating  island  of  wild  hyacinths  and  got  affectionate 
and  insisted  that  I  go  with  them  downstream.  I  pro- 
tested as  well  as  I  could  with  my  bare  hands,  but  the 
lilies  wouldn't  have  it.  They  just  wrapped  themselves 
all  round  and  here  I  am,  helpless  but  contented.  Really, 
I  hoped  it  would  be  longer  before  any  one  saw  me  and 
came  to  my  rescue." 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  turn  back  then?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  no;  not  so  long  as  you're  here,"  she  said  indif- 
ferently. "I  reckon  I  might  as  well  be  rescued  now  as 
later  on." 

"You're  in  no  hurry  about  it?" 

"Certainly  not.     Why  should  I  be?" 

"What's  the  second  verse  of  that  song?"  he  asked,  as 
he  came  alongside. 

"What !    Were  you  listening  ?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  117 

"I  plead  guilty.  I  was  hoping  there'd  be  more  of  it, 
and  then  the  lily  drift  came  along  and  spoiled  it." 

"There  isn't  any  more  of  it,"  she  said  stiffly.  "If  s 
one  of  Uncle  Armand's!" 

"Doctor  Thibodeaux?" 

"Yes.     Does  that  surprise  you  so?" 

"It  does.  Of  course  I've  only  met  the  doctor  a  couple 
of  times,  but  he  is  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  sus- 
pect of  writing  songs." 

"Then  you  don't  appreciate  Uncle  Armand.  I  could 
suspect  him  of  everything  fine  in  the  world." 

"I  agree  with  you." 

"But  you  wouldn't  suspect  him  of  writing  songs?"  she 
said,  looking  at  him  critically  as  he  briskly  drew  aer 
pirogue  free  of  the  lily  drift.  "I  suppose  you  hare  no 
time  for  such  foolishness  yourself?" 

"Foolishness?     I  didn't  call  it  foolishness." 

"But  you  must  think  it  so — a  brisk  Yankee  business 
man  must  think  so." 

Stephen  looked  round  as  he  towed  her  boat  toward 
shore. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"I  heard  about  your  enterprise  in  trying  to  purchase 
Black  Woods,"  she  said  swiftly.  "Is  that  the  way  Yan- 
kees always  do  business?" 

"Why,  Miss  Reid !"  he  laughed  harshly,  "you're  more 
than  half  Yankee  yourself." 

"Am  I?  Perhaps.  But  I  may  have  certain  preju- 
dices nevertheless." 


118  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"But  was  there  anything  wrong  in  my  trying  to  buy 
Black  Woods?" 

"I  suppose  not,  from  your  point  of  view.  It's  a  chance 
to  make  money.  What  else  matters?" 

"A  whole  lot  of  course,"  he  replied.  "But  you  must 
admit,  that  matters,  too." 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  modest,  Mr.  Warren,"  she  said  with 
a  short  laugh.  "Don't  place  the  making  of  money  sec- 
ond to  anything  else  in  the  world." 

He  paddled  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Very  well,  I  won't,  if  you  insist/' 

"That's  right,"  she  said,  with  a  subtle  hint  of  mocking 
in  the  words  of  approval.  "You  came  down  here  to 
make  money.  Be  true  to  your  colors." 

Warren  looked  up,  caught  the  flash  of  her  eyes  and 
the  curl  of  her  lip,  and  looked  away. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  did  come  down  here  to  make 
money." 

"What  else  would  you  or  your  kind  be  anywhere  for?" 

"My  kind?" 

"Yes;  grasping  business  men." 

The  pirogues  were  now  slightly  above  the  landing 
place  and  with  his  paddle  idle  he  allowed  them  to  drift 
slowly  in  toward  the  dock. 

"Guilty,"  he  said  finally. 

"And  unashamed,"  she  added. 

"Yes.  Unashamed."  The  bow  of  his  pirogue  struck 
the  shore,  he  leaped  out,  drew  her  craft  in  and  helped 
her  out  upon  the  dock. 

"Guilty,  as  charged,"  he  continued,  "but  still  I  don't 


TWISTED  TRAILS  119 

understand  what  heinous  crime  I'm  guilty  of  in  offering 
to  buy  Mr.  Mattel's  timber?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  pained  skep- 
ticism. 

"Just  out  of  curiosity,"  she  said  coldly,  "don't  you 
really  see  anything  reprehensible  in  your  conduct?  Or 
is  that  the  way  you  pushing  business  men  always  trans- 
act business?" 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  "I  think  they  are  usually  more 
successful." 

She  rewarded  the  remark  with  an  indignant  toss  of  her 
head.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  be  seeking  a  prop- 
erly barbed  retort. 

"Perhaps  old  Mr.  Martel  wasn't  sufficiently  ill  to  serve 
your  purpose?"  she  suggested. 

"Mr.  Martel  was  not  ill  when  I  called  on  him,"  said 
Stephen. 

"Oh,  excellent,  splendid!"  she  cried  mockingly. 
"Really,  your  acting  is  convincing — almost." 

"Is  Mr.  Martel  ill,  now?"  he  persisted. 

"No,  not  now.  Fortunately  he  is  quite  recovered 
from  his  attack  in  spite  of  your  pushing  business  meth- 
ods of  rushing  into  his  room,  you  and  your  lawyer, 
while  he  was  helpless,  and  trying  to  bully  him  into  sell- 
ing his  property." 

Stephen  was  silent.  He  looked  at  her  and  saw  by 
her  expression  that  her  opinion  was  fixed.  Nothing  that 
he,  an  outsider,  a  Yankee,  could  say  on  this  matter  would 
be  accepted  as  anything  but  an  attempt  at  an  excuse. 
Why  should  he  make  any  explanation?  He  looked  at 


120  TWISTED  TRAILS 

her  and  laughed,  and  he  was  glad  at  the  sight  of  the 
flash  of  anger  in  her  eyes.  With  one  of  those  lightning 
changes  which  were  so  startling  in  her  she  dropped  com- 
pletely into  the  Cajun  character: 

"Poah  lil  Cajun  gal  am  glad  she  mek  fun  foh  grand 
Yankee  biznais  man." 

Warren  laughed  again. 

"You're  angry,"  he  said,  "and  you  can't  hide  it." 

"No;  poah  lil  Cajun  gal  not  so  angry  as  grand  Mistoh 
Warren." 

"I— angry?" 

"Shore!  Man,  what  yoh  angry  'bout?  Yoh  laugh 
sounds  lak  somebody  stole  yoh  precious  money.  Poah 
Mistoh  Warren!  Lil  Cajun  gal  feel  sorry  for  man  what 
got  nothing  left  if  folks  steal  his  money." 

He  stared  at  her  dumbfounded.  Which  was  the  real 
girl:  Miss  Reid,  or  this  pattering  Cajun?  Now  he 
smiled. 

"It's  too  bad,  really/'  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  I  said 
anything — Miss  Reid — I " 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Miss  Reid  coldly.  "I 
really  fear  I've  kept  you  from  your  business  too  long, 
Mr.  Warren,"  she  said.  "I  am  obliged  to  you  for  tak- 
ing the  time  and  trouble  to  help  me  out.  Of  course, 
I  expect  to  reimburse  you  for  the  time  you  have  lost." 

"Where  shall  I  send  the  bill?"  he  flashed  out. 

She  looked  back  for  one  swift  instant,  the  smile  upon 
her  lips  and  eyes  a  gleam  of  mischievous  triumph.  He 
understood.  She  was  glad,  glad  because  she  had  teased 
him  and  touched  him  on  the  raw! — A  man  was  a  fool 


TWISTED  TRAILS  121 

for  wasting  a  minute  on  that  sort  of  girl  even  if  she 
were  not  engaged  to  another  man.  But  he  realized  also 
that  because  she  was  that  sort  of  a  girl  he  was  going 
to  waste  a  lot  of  minutes  thinking  about  her — even  if  she 
was  engaged  to  marry  Georges  Martel. 

The  morning  train  bearing  the  pay-roll  money  pulled 
in  and  Stephen,  with  a  short-barreled  pump-gun  held 
hunter  fashion  in  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm,  stood  guard 
while  Octave  Landry  and  Terry  McGurk  transferred  the 
money  bag  from  the  express  car  to  a  company  flivver 
for  transportation  to  the  office.  At  the  office  he  laid 
the  gun  on  his  desk,  its  wicked  muzzle  pointing  toward 
the  cashier's  window  and  he  remained  within  reach  of 
the  weapon  while  the  men  were  being  paid  off.  The 
men,  peering  through  the  grilled  window,  saw  the  gun 
and  grinned. 

"Fixing  to  get  you  a  Snake  hide,  Mr.  Warren?'* 

"Just  a  warning  for  him  to  leave  us  alone,"  replied 
Warren. 

At  last  the  men  were  paid  off.  Octave  and  Terry  had 
gone  home  and  Steppy  was  preparing  to  close  the  office 
when  Estella  and  Georges  Martel  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Ah,  Warren!"  said  Martel.  "Welcome  to  Lily 
City!" 

"Thanks,  but  you're  rather  late,  aren't  you,  Martel? 
I've  been  on  the  job  here  for  some  time." 

"I  came  to  apologize — No !  To  make  an  explanation," 
said  Estella,  and  by  the  manner  in  which  Georges  started 
and  stared  at  her  Stephen  knew  the  announcement  was 
entirely  unexpected. 


122  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"You  see,  I  really  thought  Mr.  Martel  was  ill." 

"Oh,  bosh !  'Stella,"  interrupted  Georges.  "Why  drag 
that  up  now?  We're  here  on  a  little  call " 

"He  told  me  he  was  ill,"  she  continued  with  a  slight 
tightening  of  the  lips,  "and  you  see  I  had  grown  up 
believing  every  word  he  said  was  true,  so  I  believed  him. 
I  know  now  he  was — mistaken.  I  am  not  apologizing, 
merely  explaining." 

"I  am  sure  Mr.  Warren  appreciates  it,"  said  Georges 
with  one  of  his  mocking  bows.  He  was  furious,  furi- 
ous with  her  and  with  Warren,  yet  his  manner  was  en- 
tirely suave  and  friendly.  "My  father  was  a  little  up- 
set. An  old  man;  it's  all  a  trifle." 

"Now  I  have  explained,"  said  the  girl.  "That  is 
what  I  came  for.  Entirely  out  of  consideration  for  my 
own  sense  of  the  proper  thing  to  do." 

Stephen  almost  laughed;  in  that  moment  she  was  so 
much  like  Dr.  Thibodeaux,  the  same  trick  of  elevating 
the  chin,  the  same  flash  of  the  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes;  of  course,"  said  Georges  swiftly. 
"Now  that  we  have  that  little  matter  out  of  the  way  let 
us  turn  to  more  pleasant  things.  You've  taken  hold  with 
a  will  here,  I  understand,  Warren.  How  do  you  like 
Lily  City?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

"Thinking  of  locating  here,  Warren?" 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  the  girl.  "Isn't  it  a  chance 
to  make  money?" 

"Estella!"  protested  Georges,  greatly  pleased. 

"Nonsense!     It's  true,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Warren?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  123 

"It  is." 

"I  told  you  so.  Come,  Georges.  I  have  explained. 
That  is  all  I  came  for." 

"Have  you  been  to  Camp  Haut  Isle,  Warren?"  called 
Georges  from  the  doorway.  "No? — I  understand  the 
climate  down  there — and  Bomb  Carkey — are  not  favor- 
able to  strangers." 


CHAPTER  XVI 


,  dang,  clang!" 

The  ringing  alarum  of  a  great  iron  triangle  smit- 
ten by  a  hammer  in  the  black  hands  of  the  cook  awoke 
Warren  a  few  days  later  in  his  bunk  in  the  little  shack  he 
had  occupied  upon  his  first  visit  to  Camp  Haut  Isle.  Haut 
Isle  was  a  tract  of  comparatively  dry  ground  in  the  heart 
of  the  swamp,  deriving  its  name  from  an  infinitesimal 
elevation  above  the  normal  water  level.  Civilization  was 
much  further  removed  from  Camp  Haut  Isle  than  the 
mere  measure  of  miles  indicated.  It  was  a  tough  camp. 
The  crew  was  half  white  and  half  black,  and  all  bad  irre- 
spective of  color.  And  Foreman  Bomb  Carkey  was 
lord  and  tyrant  over  them  all  by  virtue  of  the  skill  and 
promptness  with  which  he  swung  his  two  hard  fists. 

It  was  Sunday.  The  men  were  sleeping  late.  The 
morning  sun,  which  usually  found  them  out  in  the  swamp 
standing  in  water  up  to  their  knees,  waiting  for  sufficient 
light  to  begin  the  day's  work,  was  high  and  warm  in  the 
heavens  by  the  time  the  breakfast  gong  sent  its  iron 
alarum  through  the  silence  upon  the  camp.  The  mists 
of  the  morning  were  gone  from  the  swamp.  Mocking 
birds,  robins  and  blackbirds  flashed  in  the  sunlight,  and 
above  the  coal-black  kinky  heads  of  the  men  gathered  be- 
fore the  negro  bunk  house,  a  scarlet  tanager  hung  to  a 

124 


TWISTED  TRAILS  125 

festoon  of  gray  tree  moss  and  idly  surveyed  the  Sabbath 
scene.  Even  the  clatter  of  breakfast  in  the  two  grub 
shacks  seemed  to  have  a  subdued,  sleepy  note,  and  finally 
the  clatter  diminished  and  died  away.  Silence  reigned 
for  a  space,  and  presently,  from  the  colored  quarters, 
arose  the  sound  of  primitively  melodious  voices  raised 
in  plaintive  hymns.  The  colored  loggers  with  Deacon 
Hogfoot,  the  biggest  man  and  the  best  singer  in  camp, 
to  lead  them,  were  "having  church." 

"Lawd,  it's  me,  standin'  in  the  need  of  prayer," 
chanted  two  score  deep  voices  slowly,  and  were  silent. 

"  'Tain't  the  elder,  Lawd,"  chimed  the  solemn  voice 
of  the  deacon. 

Wailed  the  anguished  voices  of  the  congregation: 

"No,  Lawd,  it's  me!" 

"Lawd,  it's  me,  standin'  in  the  need  of  prayer." 

"  Tain't  mah  bruddeh,  Lawd." 

"No,  Lawd,  it's  me!" 

There  were  a  dozen  verses  to  the  strange  song,  and  by 
the  time  it  was  finished  the  voices  of  the  deacon  and 
the  chanters  had  worked  themselves  up  to  a  quavering 
pitch. 

Suddenly  a  fresh  voice  broke  out  jubilantly: 

fflfs  deh  old-time  religion! 
It's  deh  old-time  religion! 
Ifs  deh  old-time  religion! 
And  it's  good  enough  foh  me!" 

The  congregation  joined  in  with  a  vim  that  shook  the 
roof: 


126  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"  'Twas  good  enough  foh  Moses, 
'Twos  good  enough  foh  Moses, 
'Twos  good  enough  foh  Moses, 
And  it's  good  enough  foh  me!" 

"Can  that  bellering,  you  dinges !"  The  bull-of-Bashan 
voice  of  Carkey,  the  camp  foreman,  came  roaring  out  of 
the  open  door  of  his  bunk  shack  next  to  Steppy's.  "Stop 
it,  I  say,  or  I'll  be  over  there  and  make  alligator  food 
out  of  a  bunch  of  you." 

The  singing  ceased.     Silence  reigned. 

"Mistah  Cahkey,"  spoke  a  voice  plaintively,  "ain't  the 
rules  say  as  how  we  can  have  church  Sundays?" 

Carkey  came  rolling  out  of  his  shack  like  a  great 
bear  aroused  and  angry. 

"Who  was  that  talking?"  he  demanded  as  he  marched 
across  to  the  bunk-house  door.  "Who's  the  wise  dinge 
that's  pulling  the  rules  on  me?" 

He  casually  knocked  down  a  colored  chore  boy  who 
incautiously  peered  out,  and  snarled  : 

"Cat  Head  ?     That  sounded  like  your  voice." 

"No,  suh,  no,  suh,  Mistah  Cahkey !"  replied  Cat  Head. 

"Hogfoot — let's  hear  you." 

"  'Twan't  me,  suh,"  said  the  deacon. 

"Huh!"  Carkey  stood  with  his  head  thrust  into  the 
silent  bunk  house.  "Why  don't  you  speak  up  now,  some 
of  you?  I'm  here;  why  don't  you  tell  me  about  the 
rules  now?" 

"Rules!"  he  snarled.     "I'll  give  you  rules.     I'll  tell 


TWISTED  TRAILS  127 

you  when  you  sing  and  when  you  shut  up.  You  don't 
want  to  sing  now,  do  you?  Eh,  Hogfoot?" 

"No,  suh,  Mistah  Cahkey " 

"Well,  then,  sing,  damn  you!  Sing!  You  hear  me? 
You  don't  want  to  sing,  eh?  Well,  I  say  you'll  sing 
and  do  it  now.  I'm  the  rule  maker  here;  I'm  still  mak- 
ing 'em,  even  if  there  is  a  new  company  pet  down  here. 
Sing!  You  hear  me?  I'll  let  you  all  know,  company 
pet  and  all  of  you,  who's  boss  of  this  camp!  Sing!" 

Terrified  first  into  silence,  then  into  song,  the  negroes 
broke  out: 

"Deh  fieh  of  deh  Lawd  am  righteous, 
Deh  fieh  of  deh  Lawd  am  warm. 
Oh,  Lawd,  have  a  pity  on  dis  poh  old  sinneh, 
And  don't  let  it  do  me  any  harm." 

"Shut  up!"  The  singing  stopped.  "Stay  shut.  I'm 
running  this  camp  and  every  one  in  it — pets  included." 

McGill,  the  white  engineer  of  the  pull-boat  which  drew 
the  rafts  of  logs  out  of  the  swamp  to  the  bayou,  chuckled 
with  the  familiarity  of  a  favored  toady  as  Carkey  re- 
turned to  his  shack. 

"You're  the  boy  who  can  give  it  to  'em,  Carkey." 

But  Carkey's  ugly  temper  knew  no  friends  this  morn- 
ing. It  never  did  the  morning  after  the  Saturday  night 
before.  Carkey  was  a  man  most  regular  in  his  habits, 
deplorable  though  those  habits  might  be. 

"Who  the  devil  asked  you  to  butt  in  here?"  was  his 
response. 


128  TWISTED  TRAILS 

\ 

"I  ain't  butting  in,  Carkey,  I  was  just  saying " 

"Don't  say  so  much.  Use  your  mouth  for  poking  food 
into.  If  you  don't  you  may  get  it  hammered  off  you." 

"Aw,  come  on,  Bomb,  you  know '* 

"Get  out  of  the  way." 

The  engineer  laughed  with  mock  cheerfulness  and, 
seated  on  a  near-by  coil  of  cable,  resumed  his  toadying. 

"That  new  guy,  Warren,  won't  try  to  horn  in  here,  if 
he  knows  what's  good  for  him,  ek,  Bomb?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"Who,  me?  I  don't  know  nothing.  You're  the  boy 
who  knows.  I  don't  have  any  chance  to  know  anything 
about  what's  going  on  round  here." 

Carkey,  engaged  in  splashing  water  in  his  face,  paused 
suddenly. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  McGill?"  he  asked  after 
a  moment  of  silence. 

"Aw,  say,  Bomb " 

"Do  you  mean — anything?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  don't  mean  anything.  I  just  meant 
about  this  new  guy,  this  kid,  coming  in  here,  that's  all. 
Who  is  he,  Carkey?  How's  he  come  here?" 

There  was  a  period  of  silence;  then  Carkey  spoke. 

"He's  a  pet.  I  suspect  the  old  man  has  picked  him 
for  his  kept  poodle  dog." 

"Huh!  Pretty  soft  for  him.  Wish  some  millionaire 
would  pick  me  for  his  pet." 

Carkey  laughed  shortly,  a  laugh  like  a  contemptuous 
bark. 

"You  get  out  of  here!"  he  roared  in  a  fresh  access  of 


TWISTED  TRAILS  129 

rage.  "Get  away  from  my  shack.  First  it's  those 
dinges,  then  you  have  to  hang  round.  Go  on,  beat  it!'1 

Stephen  lay  perfectly  still  in  his  bunk  and  smiled 
grimly  up  at  the  rough-slabbed  ceiling.  He  had  avoided 
Carkey  as  much  as  possible,  for  there  was  a  world  of 
work  to  be  done  in  raising  the  camp  to  a  satisfactory 
plane  of  productivity,  and  a  clash  with  the  foreman  would 
not  have  aided  in  this  work.  Carkey  being  a  man  of 
simple  mental  processes  had  accepted  the  new  superin- 
tendent's diplomacy  as  a  tribute  to  his  own  well-known 
physical  prowess.  The  tribute  did  not  please  him,  for 
Carkey  was  too  near  the  primitive  to  be  capable  of  any 
definite  sensation  of  vanity.  Had  he  been  capable  of  dis- 
cerning and  appreciating  Warren's  present  mood  he 
would  have  been  startled.  Warren  was  a  high-brow,  an 
expert,  an  educated  man;  and  to  Carkey's  mind  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  believe  that  such  a  man  might 
be  in  a  mood  in  which  a  fight  would  be  as  welcome  as  to 
any  rough-neck  in  camp. 

"It  will  have  to  be  out  of  camp,  though,"  thought 
Steppy.  "It  wouldn't  do  to  let  the  men  see  their  bosses 
fighting." 

Having  decided  upon  this  course,  he  leaped  from  his 
bunk,  shaved  carefully,  and  stepped  out  to  greet  the 
world  with  a  cheerful  countenance.  After  a  breakfast 
of  fried  catfish,  corn  bread,  molasses,  and  coffee  as 
black  and  strong  as  only  a  Cajun  cook  dares  to  make 
it,  he  locked  up  his  shack  and  started  out  upon  the 
low  ridge  of  solid  ground  which  ran  north  from  the 
camp.  Carkey,  watching  him  from  his  shanty  door, 


130  TWISTED  TRAILS 

waited  until  Steppy  was  at  the  edge  of  the  camp  clear- 
ing, then  called  sharply: 

"Hey!" 

Steppy  stopped  cheerfully. 

"What  is  it,  Carkey?" 

"Where  the  devil  do  you  think  you're  going?  You 
do  too  much  snooping  around  to  suit  me.  Understand  ?" 

Stephen  nodded  good-naturedly. 

"Sorry.     Don't  mean  to." 

"  'Don't  mean  to !'  "  mimicked  Carkey.  "I  asked  you 
where  you  going?" 

"Trail  along  and  see,"  said  Stephen  blithely,  and  went 
on  his  way. 

Four  miles  north  of  camp,  on  the  edge  of  the  swamp, 
Terry  McGurk  had  found  an  abandoned  training  track, 
and  it  was  there  he  was  waiting  with  Nailer.  The  track 
was  on  an  old  abandoned  plantation.  Fire  had  de- 
stroyed the  buildings.  Underneath  a  mass  of  vines 
Terry  had  found  the  remnants  of  a  room  of  the  burned 
mansion,  four  crumbling  walls  thoroughly  concealed 
from  the  eyes  of  the  world  by  the  mass  of  vines,  and  it 
was  from  the  doorway  of  the  ruin  that  he  called  a  greet- 
ing when  Warren  came  pushing  out  of  the  canebrake  on 
the  trail  from  the  camp. 

"You're  late,  bo,  you're  late,"  was  his  greeting. 
"What'd  you  do — wait  for  the  whistle  to  wake  you? 
Me,  I'm  up  with  the  humming  birds  this  morning.  I'm 
up  before  the  whistle  would  have  blown  if  it  was  a  week 
day.  Terry,'  says  I,  'to-day's  the  day  when  you'll  know 
if  Nailer  has  got  a  scrapping  chance  to  make  a  come- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  131 

back.'  You  know,  bo,  I've  been  feeling  him  out  a  little 
these  last  few  days.  A  rest  was  what  he  needed,  and 
I  give  it  to  him.  'Nailer,'  I  says,  'you're  a  sick  baby 
in  a  sanitarium.  You've  been  up  against  the  white 
lights,  and  now  you're  going  up  the  river  to  get  the  jazz 
juice  outa  your  system  and  the  old  pep  in.  You're  going 
to  rest  first,  Nailer,  then  start  with  a  little  light  road  work 
for  your  wind.' 

"Hey!"  Terry  bridled  at  Warren's  smile.  "You 
think  he  didn't  understand  me,  eh?  Listen!  Hey, 
Nailer,  here's  a  bird  who  don't  think  you're  hep  to  my 
spiel.  How  'bout  it,  old  baby?"  Nailer  whinnied  ea- 
gerly. "There  you  are.  How  d'you  like  it?  You  tell 
me  horses  don't  understand  what  you  say  to  'em  ?  Well, 
maybe  they  don't  from  some  birds.  Some  dubs  ain't 
fit  to  speak  to  horses.  But  I  used  to  sleep  in  the  same 
stall  with  this  old  baby  when  he  was  a  colt  and  I  was 
curing  him  of  that  wrenched  shoulder.  In  the  morning 
he'd  lean  over  and  bite  me  ear  to  wake  me  up.  Am  I 
handing  it  out  straight,  Nailer?"  The  horse's  prompt 
whinny  seemed  to  corroborate  the  statement.  "So  I 
give  him  a  rest,  nothing  to  do  but  inhale  his  oats  and 
lay  round  in  this  sun  and  let  it  soak  through  his  bones. 
I  believe  the  flu's  all  out  of  his  system  and  his  coat  is 
beginning  to  shine  a  little. 

"Bo,"  continued  Terry  hoarsely,  "you're  the  guy  that's 
made  it  possible  to  get  that  baby  looking  right,  and — 
and — awright,  bo,  awright.  Say  nothing,  it  is,  but — 
you're  hep  to  how  I  feel  about  it. 

"So  I  begin  to  give  him  a  little  exercise.     When  do  I 


132  TWISTED  TRAILS 

have  time  to  do  that?  Why,  when  I  ain't  working,  of 
course.  When's  that?  Well,  it's  for  about  fifteen  min- 
utes every  morning  when  I'm  supposed  to  be  putting 
away  me  breakfast.  And  it's  about  half  an  hour  at  noon, 
when  I'm  supposed  to  be  stowing  in  me  lunch.  And 
it's  about  an  hour  every  evening  after  supper,  and  before 
it  begins  to  get  too  damp  along  the  bayou.  I  don't  work 
him,  you  know;  just  let  him  ramble.  First  day  he's  like 
a  guy  just  out  erf  the  hospital.  Next  day  he  wants  to 
go  a  little  farther.  And  so  on.  I  just  let  him  ramble 
along  easy  over  these  soft  roads;  that's  how  I  happed 
to  hit  this  dump. 

"Say,  bo,  it's  immense!  Imagine  these  old  birds  down 
here  having  private  training  tracks  so  long  ago  they're 
forgotten  now. 

"Well,  I  came  down  here  to  give  him  a  work-out. 
Come  on,  Nailer,  this  is  only  a  quarter-mile  track,  and  it's 
too  slow  for  any  good  work,  but  come  on,  you  baby, 
lemme  feel  if  you  got  any  pep  in  your  system." 

Nailer's  response  was  to  rear  colt-wise  the  instant  he 
felt  Terry  on  his  back.  He  arched  his  neck,  pawed  the 
air  with  his  fore  hoofs  and  blew  two  mighty  blasts  from 
his  quivering  nostrils  before  coming  down  on  all  fours. 

"He's  bragging,  that's  all,"  explained  Terry.  "All 
set?" 

Warren  had  stepped  to  one  side  of  the  track  and  stood 
ready  with  a  handkerchief  held  up  in  lieu  of  a  flag. 
The  racer  quivered  at  the  sight  of  the  bit  of  cloth  and 
gathered  himself  tensely  as  he  felt  his  rider  crouching 
for  the  start. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  133 

"Go!"  shouted  Warren  and  threw  down  the  flag. 

Nailer  leaped  forward,  eager  with  the  colt's  eager- 
ness to  run  from  the  drop  of  the  flag,  but  the  hands  and 
arms  of  the  boy  on  his  back  were  against  the  notion. 
Terry  held  Nailer  in  with  a  grip  of  iron.  The  blood 
leaped  in  his  veins  as  he  sensed  the  new  energy  of  the 
animal  beneath  him  struggling  desperately  for  his  head. 

"Living  dynamite!"  thought  Terry.  "Oh,  baby,  if 
you  only  can  work  up  enough  bottom  to  stand  the  gaff !" 

For  a  furlong  the  colt  fought  for  his  head,  and  then 
Terry  felt  that  the  time  was  ripe.  He  spoke  softly,  and 
Nailer,  subsiding,  became  in  a  flash  the  perfect  running 
animal  that  he  was.  His  time  was  not  fast — the  soft 
old  track  precluded  the  possibility  of  that — but  his  stride 
was  superb,  his  gait  a  flashing,  rippling  thing  that 
seemed  as  spontaneous,  as  tireless  as  the  flowing  of  swift 
water.  As  he  swept  past  Warren  on  the  first  round  of 
the  quarter-mile  track  Terry  grinned,  but  as  he  swept 
round  on  the  second  lap  the  grin  vanished  and  his 
freckled  face  grew  tense  with  apprehension.  Nailer  was 
going  good  so  far.  He  reached  the  great  live-oak  tree 
beneath  which  showed  the  halfway  mark  on  the  track 
with  never  a  falter  in  his  stride.  Terry's  mouth  flew 
open  and  his  breath  came  in  short  gulps  as  he  swung 
into  the  finish  and  saw  Steppy's  figure  at  the  side  of  the 
track.  There  was  where  the  test  would  come.  A  half 
mile  Nailer  could  run  at  top  speed  on  nothing  but  his 
nerve — had  done  so  at  New  Orleans  on  Opening  Day. 
Then  he  had  faded,  had  died  away,  because  the  strength 


134.  TWISTED  TRAILS 

was  not  in  him  to  race  farther.  What  would  he  do  now? 
Would  he  falter,  would  he  fade? 

Terry  scarcely  breathed.  He  crouched  like  a  graven 
gargoyle  above  the  withers,  afraid  to  move,  to  speak, 
for  fear  of  spurring  the  horse  to  a  burst  beyond  his 
powers.  Nailer  was  running  close  to  the  rail  and  true 
as  an  arrow.  There  was  a  passing  flash.  They  were  past, 
past  the  half-mile  mark,  and  Nailer  was  going  strong! 

"Oh,  baby!"  murmured  Terry  in  ecstasy. 

The  quarter  post  flashed  past.  Five-eighths,  and 
Nailer  still  going  strong.  From  his  place  at  the  starting 
point  Warren  was  watching  for  the  break  which  must 
come  soon  now.  He  had  eyes  only  for  the  horse.  The 
second  post  on  the  track  showed  up  distinctly  against 
the  trunk  of  the  great  live  oak. 

"If  he  makes  it  without  breaking,"  mused  Warren, 
"he  will  have  run  three-quarters  of  a  mile  at  top  speed, 
and " 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  aloud,  and  in  an  instant  was 
racing  across  the  infield  as  fast  as  he  could  run. 

As  Nailer  swept  toward  the  halfway  mark  a  man 
had  leaped  out  from  behind  the  tree  and  tossed  a  large 
branch  at  the  horse's  head.  A  cry  from  Terry,  a  shud- 
dering leap  on  Nailer's  part,  and  the  missile  flew  wild; 
but  Nailer  was  doing  his  best  to  climb  the  rail  that  sepa- 
rated the  track  from  the  field. 


CHAPTER  XVH 

'1117'HEN  Warren  arrived  on  the  scene  Terry  had 
quieted  the  horse  and  was  on  the  ground,  hurling 
shrill  imprecations  at  the  man  who  had  so  dangerously 
stopped  him. 

"Are  you  drunk  or  crazy,  Carkey?  You  big  stiff, 
don't  you  know  you  might  have  hurt  somebody?  For 
two  cents  I'd  jump  the  horse  all  over  your  carcass,  you 
big  mutt !" 

Carkey  paid  no  more  attention  to  Terry  than  if  he 
were  a  buzzing  mosquito.  He  stood  squarely  planted  on 
his  thick  legs  in  the  middle  of  the  track,  watching  through 
slitted  eyes  the  figure  that  came  racing  across  the  field. 
He  waited  until  Steppy  had  ducked  under  the  rail  and 
onto  the  track,  then  he  blurted  sneeringly: 

"What  the  hell  do  you  think  you're  going  to  do?" 

There  was  no  need  to  say  more.  He  had  expressed 
the  purpose  of  his  move  clearly. 

Steppy  understood.  The  inevitable  clash  with  Carkey 
had  come.  It  had  been  thrust  upon  him,  and  he  could 
not  avoid  it 

"Terry,"  he  said  easily,  "I  thought  you  told  me  this 
Carkey  was  a  pretty  good  sort  of  fellow." 

The  silence  that  followed  was  breathless.  Terry  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  swallowed  a  lump  in  his 

135 


136  TWISTED  TRAILS 

throat;  Carkey  stood  motionless,  his  eyes  nearly  closed, 
waiting.  Through  the  stillness  came  Steppy's  voice, 
saying  easily : 

"Why,  he's  nothing  but  a  bully  and  a  four-flusher." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  who  struck  first. 
Terry  McGurk  was  unable  to  say.  He  saw  Carkey's  arm 
swing  at  Warren's  last  word,  and  to  his  amazement  heard, 
in  the  same  flash,  Steppy's  left  fist  smack  against  Carkey's 
mouth.  Carkey  had  been  waiting,  keyed  up  to  land 
the  first  punch,  but  Warren  had  been  watching  him, 
and  even  as  he  finished  speaking  had  launched  his  first 
blow. 

They  drew  back  after  the  first  exchange,  Carkey 
growling  with  an  animal  sort  of  joy. 

"That's  what  I  was  after,  that's  what  I  was  after! 
'Tis  not  I  wanted  to  hurt  the  nag  or  the  kid.  You're  the 
bird  I  want  a  crack  at.  Beat  me  to  the  first  punch,  eh  ?" 

The  battle  mood  was  on  Carkey ;  he  had  no  fresh  liquor 
in  him,  but  he  was  fight-drunk  and  though  his  speech  was 
thick  and  incoherent  his  movements  were  uncannily  tiger- 
ish for  a  man  of  his  bulk. 

"The  first  punch.  So  be  it.  A  big,  strong  kid,  with 
lots  of  meat  on  his  bones  to  pound  up.  Ye  young  stiff, 
ye  hit  me  with  a  sack  of  oats — me,  Bomb  Carkey." 

He  struck  as  he  uttered  his  own  name,  a  blow  with  his 
full  body  weight  thrown  behind  it  to  drive  the  sparlike 
arm  crashing  through  any  possible  guard,  and  though 
Stephen  leaped  back,  he  felt  a  thud  on  his  breastbone 
which  shook  him  to  the  heels  and  sent  him  staggering 
backward. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  137 

"Hi,  Carkey!"  muttered  the  foreman.  "What's  the 
-matter?  Falling  short?" 

Feinting  and  ducking  to  draw  attention,  he  slid  his  feet 
skillfully  forward  and  suddenly  unloosed  an  uppercut. 
Caught  and  drawn  to  close  quarters  by  the  trick  Steppy 
saved  himself  only  by  the  youthful  flexibility  of  his  neck 
and  body.  Instinctively  he  threw  his  head  far  back. 
The  blow  barely  clipped  the  point  of  his  upturned  chin, 
yet  though  it  caught  him  going  away  it  lifted  him  in  the 
air  and  threw  him  back  on  his  shoulders  his  length 
away. 

The  pride  of  youth,  aroused  and  outraged  at  being 
knocked  down,  saved  him  further,  for  he  leaped  instantly 
to  his  feet  just  in  time  to  escape  Carkey's  crushing  kick, 
leaped  in  time  to  stop  the  big  man's  rush  with  a  furiously 
wild  overhead  swing  which  landed  solidly  on  Carkey's 
flat  nose.  Stopped  in  his  tracks  the  ex-pugilist  shook 
his  head  like  a  man  rising  from  a  long  plunge  and  vented 
an  inarticulate  growl  of  relish. 

^"Few  could  do  it,  few  could  do  it  after  that  knock- 
down," he  muttered  in  his  fight-drunk  tone.  "Ah,  it's 
going  to  be  a  grand  fight,  Bomb  Carkey.  Hammer  and 
tongs.  He'll  last  more'n  a  round  or  two.  You'll  need 
no  whisky  to-day,  Bomb,  you'll  need  no  whisky  to-day." 

"So  that's  the  way  you  fight,"  said  Stephen. 

A  yelp  like  the  bark  of  a  wolf  rose  from  Carkey's 
lips. 

"He  don't  like  it,  Bomb!"  he  roared.  "You're  too 
rough." 

For  answer  Steppy  ducked  a  wide  swing  and  drove 


138  TWISTED  TRAILS 

his  head  solidly  against  the  lower  ribs  of  Carkey's  enor- 
mous chest.  Again  Carkey  laughed  his  ugly  laugh. 

"Butt  away,  kid,  they're  solid ;  butt  away." 

He  leaned  forward,  sticking  out  his  barrel-like  chest. 

"Butt  me!"  he  challenged.  "Ram  your  head  against 
it  and  feel  of  a  man." 

Steppy  feinted  with  his  head  as  if  to  butt,  and  instead 
lashed  out  with  his  left  to  Carkey's  eye. 

"Ha,  ha,  Bomb!  He's  foxy  too.  He  knows  some 
tricks.  All  right.  Now  we'll  show  him  a  few  real 
ones." 

Then  followed  a  slashing  display  of  every  trick  of  the 
ring,  fair  or  foul,  every  trick  of  rough  and  tumble  fight- 
ing. Stephen,  warned  by  the  weight  of  the  uppercut  that 
had  knocked  him  down,  dropped  all  attempt  at  fighting 
back,  and  sought  only  to  keep  away.  His  long  legs 
nullified  Carkey's  rushes,  and  his  caution  brought  the 
tricks  to  naught. 

"He  ain't  a  fighter,  Bomb,"  muttered  the  foreman, 
"he's  a  dancer.  Stand  up  like  a  man,  ye  stiff !" 

Warren  continued  to  step  away  and  Carkey  continued 
to  rush  and  follow  him  until  his  poor  condition  asserted 
itself  and  be  began  to  breathe  hard.  When  he  paused, 
Steppy  was  on  him  like  a  whirlwind,  driving  both  arms 
like  pistons,  feinting,  striking,  ducking,  dancing  away, 
jumping  in,  striking  at  head  and  body,  and  forcing  Car- 
key  to  guard,  strike,  duck  and  step  at  top  speed  to  avoid 
hard  punishment.  Few  of  the  young  man's  blows  went 
home  through  the  erstwhile  professional's  skillful  guard. 
On  the  defensive  Carkey's  trained  fists  and  arms  formed 


TWISTED  TRAILS  139 

a  barrier  before  him,  picking  off  Warren's  blows  in  the 
air,  while  behind  the  barrier  Carkey  grinned  contemptu- 
ously. 

To  Terry  McGurk,  crouched  in  excitement,  the  scene 
was  one  of  agony;  to  any  untrained  observer  Steppy's 
efforts  would  have  seemed  futile,  pitiful.  Carkey's  hands 
moved  with  the  precision  of  an  invincible  machine,  his 
head  rolled  easily  when  the  occasion  demanded,  his  foot- 
work made  Steppy  miss  widely  time  and  again.  When 
the  opening  offered  the  expert  would  send  over  one  well- 
timed  blow,  driving  his  opponent  back,  and  holding  him 
helpless.  It  seemed  as  if  Carkey  was  playing  with  his 
opponent,  as  if  he  were  holding  him  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand,  letting  the  fight  run  along  merely  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  thing,  and  ready  and  able  to  end  it  whenever  he 
saw  fit.  And  so  he  would  have  done  but  for  the  little 
incidents  of  age  and  lack  of  condition. 

Carkey  had  ceased  his  talking.  He  was  fighting  easily, 
but  silently  and  with  an  intentness  that  contrasted  with 
his  looseness  at  the  beginning.  Steppy  watched  the 
thin,  wide  mouth.  The  lips  were  closed  tightly,  but  by 
the  ridges  of  muscle  at  their  sides  Warren  knew  they 
were  held  so  by  an  effort.  He  waited  his  opportunity 
and  drove  his  long  left  arm  at  Carkey's  middle.  The  lips 
popped  open  with  a  groan.  Carkey  snapped  them  shut 
again,  but  the  tale  had  been  told.  Carkey  lowered  his 
head  and  rushed  in  to  end  it  at  once.  His  fists  flailed  into 
thin  air.  He  leaped  after  the  fleeing  Steppy,  barely 
touching  his  retreating  guard  with  his  blows,  rushed 
again,  slipped  and  fell.  Instantly  Carkey  rolled  himself 


<L40  TWISTED  TRAILS 

into  a  ball,  curving  his  thick  arms  over  his  head  to  guard 
against  a  crushing  kick.  Warren  stepped  back  and 
dropped  his  hands.  Carkey,  in  the  act  of  rolling  away, 
looked  up.  Puzzled  for  an  instant  at  the  sight  of  his 
opponent  at  rest,  presently  he  understood. 

"Huh!"  he  growled,  springing  to  his  feet.  "You're 
one  of  these  fancy  fair-play,  no-kicking  mitt  artists,  are 
you?  All  right.  If  you  don't  want  hash  I'll  give  you 
mincemeat.  I'll  cut  you  to  pieces  according  to  the  rules." 

He  fought  savagely  again,  cursing  furiously,  but  he 
fought  without  the  foul  tricks  and  without  kicking,  fought 
as  Steppy  did,  fairly  and  hard.  And  Steppy,  as  he  fought 
back  the  best  he  knew  how,  began  to  respect  and  even 
admire  and  like  his  opponent.  Carkey  was  miserably 
out  of  shape.  His  bearlike  strength,  ferocity  and  skill 
were  sufficient  to  render  him  deadly  to  any  man  foolish 
enough  to  come  to  a  clinch  or  slow  enough  of  foot  to  be 
caught,  but  against  a  man  of  Steppy's  youth  and  build 
and  temperament  it  was  simply  age  against  youth  with 
the  inevitable  result.  Carkey 's  chance  to  win  had  been 
high  during  the  first  five  minutes  of  the  fight,  but  the 
minutes  had  passed,  and  his  chance  for  victory  was  gone 
and  he  knew  it.  He  fought  fair.  His  mouth  was  open, 
his  breath  came  whistling,  his  legs  were  like  lead.  He 
was  losing:  every  second  now  carried  him  nearer  to  de- 
feat— but  he  fought  fair. 

That  was  what  won  Steppy.  He  did  not  let  up  for 
the  simple  reason  that  the  stout-hearted  Carkey  was  rush- 
ing in  a  way  that  made  any  slackness  dangerous,  but 
stronger  than  the  grim  glow  of  victory  in  the  young 


TWISTED  TRAILS  141' 

man's  heart  grew  his  appreciation  of  the  courage  of  the 
old  bear  who  rushed  and  rushed  and  fought  fairly  and 
asked  no  quarter.  And  deep  down  in  the  twisted,  mor- 
dant soul  of  Carkey  there  was  coming  a  change,  or  rath- 
er he  was  admitting  to  himself  the  truth,  that  he  had 
respected  Warren  from  the  moment  the  young  man  faced 
him  in  the  paddock  at  New  Orleans,  and  that  now  he 
was  beginning  to  see  him  in  his  true  light.  Carkey 
began  to  have  for  Warren  the  strange  respect  and  even 
liking  with  which  the  fighting  man  regards  the  man 
who  can  beat  him  fairly  in  physical  contest.  So  he 
rushed  all  the  harder,  sought  all  the  more  desperately 
to  do  all  the  damage  he  could.  A  glancing  blow  on  the 
temple  brought  Steppy  to  his  knees,  and  Carkey  yelped 
with  delight,  but  the  young  man  rose  like  a  panther  and 
knocked  his  opponent  down  with  a  blow  that  started  from 
near  the  ground. 

"You're  there!"  growled  Carkey,  rising. 

Steppy's  acknowledgment  was  to  drop  him  again  and 
again.  He  stood  over  the  fallen  man,  ready  to  rush  the 
instant  he  was  on  his  feet,  but  Carkey  looked  up,  resting 
on  hands  and  knees  and  instead  of  rising  he  calmly  sat 
back  upon  his  haunches.  For  several  seconds  he  sat 
there,  his  chest  heaving  painfully,  his  mouth  wide  open, 
his  eyes  glaring  up  at  Steppy  through  a  welter  of  bruises 
and  bumps. 

"I'll  lay  off  the  booze,"  he  panted  finally.  "I'll  take 
off  about  fifty  pounds  of  fat.  Then  you  and  me  will 
have  a  fight!" 

The  golden  summer  weather  came  to  a  gradual  end 


142  TWISTED  TRAILS 

shortly  after  Christmas,  and  the  season  which  Lily 
Bayou  considered  as  Winter  came  upon  the  scene  for 
a  brief  sway.  Heavy  gray  clouds  filled  the  heavens 
from  horizon  to  horizon,  and  the  bayou  country,  reflect- 
ing the  mood,  became  a  region  of  mist  and  moisture  and 
listless  dun  and  gray  days.  It  rained  and  the  wind  blew. 
The  delicate  streamers  of  Spanish  moss  on  the  trees  be- 
came heavy  and  sodden;  the  running  water  was  reddish 
brown  from  the  flood  as  it  rolled  sullenly  toward  the  sea ; 
and  the  dead  gray  rushes  whistled  a  dreary  monotone  as 
the  harsh  wind  broke  them  at  its  will. 

The  sun  ceased  to  shine,  and  the  wet,  drab  mood  of 
Winter  dominated  the  scene.  The  steady  rain  raised 
the  waters  of  rivers  and  bayous,  lakes,  and  bays  to  the 
high  water  mark,  and  Lily  Bayou  ran  like  a  river.  Cy- . 
press  and  pine  logs,  torn  from  timber  rafts  on  the  lakes 
upstream,  bobbed  up  and  down  on  its  tossing  current, 
and  Lejeune,  the  deputy  sheriff,  noted  them  and  saw  the 
opportunity  for  an  easy  harvest. 

Lejeune  was  a  man  of  action  when  the  action  might 
be  foisted  upon  some  one  else.  At  the  sight  of  the  first 
logs  coming  downstream  he  grew  thoughtful.  Those  logs 
had  come  far.  Their  ownership  had  been  lost  during 
the  trip  down  the  bayou,  and  there  was  a  good,  steady 
market  for  logs  right  across  the  bay  at  the  Hartland 
mill.  Each  log  meant  at  least  one  full  meal.  Lejeune 
slouched  down  to  the  mill  office  and  found  Stephen. 

"Mawnin',  Mr.  Warren." 

"Hello,  Lejeune." 

"Busy  this  mawnin',  Mr.  Warren?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  143 

"Always  busy,  Lejeune.    What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"Like  to  talk  about  a  little  business  deal  if  you  got 
time." 

"Always  got  time  to  talk  business.    What  is  it?" 

Lejeune  rubbed  his  lank  jaws  gratefully. 

"I'd  like  to  sell  you  some  logs,  Mr.  Warren." 

"All  right,"  said  Stephen.     "Bring  them  in." 

"Will  you  buy  them?" 

"Certainly.  Where  are  they?" 

"I'll  deliver  them  at  the  mill,"  replied  Lejeune. 

From  the  office  he  walked  briskly  down  the  bayou  road 
to  the  boathouse  restaurant  of  Lafayette  Bicou,  Fish  a 
Specialty. 

"Heat  me  up  a  couple  bowls  of  cou  bouillon,  Lafe," 
said  Lejeune,  draping  his  storklike  figure  upon  one  of  the 
high  stools  before  the  oilcloth-covered  counter.  "Then 
I'll  have  a  little  gumbo,  if  you  got  any,  and  some  fried 
catfish." 

Bicou  casually  whisked  the  cracker  bowl  out  of  reach 
and  folded  his  arms. 

"You  owe  me  eight  bits,  Lejeune,"  said  he  sternly. 

"Man,"  said  Lejeune,  "don't  argue  about  eight  bits; 
feed  me.  I'm  in  the  log  business.  Just  made  a  contract 
with  the  mill.  I'll  have  all  the  money  you  want  by  to- 
night. Come  along  with  that  bouillon." 

Having  convinced  Bicou  of  his  sincerity,  and  having 
nourished  himself  to  an  extent  that  caused  even  the  ex- 
perienced cook  to  stare,  he  leisurely  unhooked  himself 
from  the  stool. 

"You  sure  ain't  satisfied?"  said  Bicou  sarcastically. 


144.  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Lejeune,  "but  I  got  to  let  that 
little  snack  do  me,  'cause  I  got  business  on  hand.  Gimme 
a  piece  of  rag,  Lafe." 

With  the  rag  and  a  piece  of  soap  he  polished  up  his 
star  till  it  shone  brilliantly.  Then  he  went  home  and 
got  his  shotgun. 

Presently  there  appeared  on  the  bayou  front  two  stal- 
wart but  badly  frightened  negroes.  Lejeune  walked  be- 
hind them  with  the  shotgun  carelessly  draped  in  the 
hollow  of  his  left  arm,  and  his  deputy-sheriff  star  shining 
for  all  the  world  to  behold. 

"Get  in,"  said  Lejeune,  pointing  to  a  sturdy  bateau. 

The  bateau  set  forth.  The  negroes  rowed;  Lejeune 
sat  at  comfort  in  the  stern.  A  sixty-foot  log  of  pine  came 
bobbing  along  on  the  flood-current. 

"Get  it,"  drawled  Lejeune. 

The  bateau  was  rowed  alongside  and  made  fast.  Le- 
jeune lolled  at  his  ease  while  the  negroes  bent  to  the 
oars  and  rowed  the  heavy  tow  across  the  bay  to  the 
mill. 

All  day  long  Lejeune  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  bateau 
and  drowsed,  and  all  day  long  the  two  black  vagrants 
whom  he  had  conscripted  toiled  at  the  task  of  salving 
outlaw  logs.  Toward  dark  the  deputy  sat  up  and  began 
to  betray  an  interest  in  his  surroundings.  A  storm  was 
raging  somewhere  down  in  the  swamps  to  the  south- 
ward and  the  disturbed  water  fowl  were  flying  north. 
Now  and  then  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  winging  their  way 
up  the  bayou,  would  sight  the  town  and  mill  and  rocket 
straight  upward  in  fright.  They  were  large,  fat  birds 


TWISTED  TRAILS  145 

and  Lejeune's  mouth  watered.  The  vision  of  one  of 
those  succulent  birds  browning  under  the  skilled  hands 
of  Lafayette  Bicou  rose  vividly  before  his  eyes,  and  the 
vision  of  wealth  swiftly  acquired  through  the  logging 
industry  faded. 

Luck  favored  him.  A  whistle  of  wings  sounded  down 
the  bayou  and  a  dozen  great  birds  suddenly  swept  over 
the  bateau.  Lejeune  rose  up  and  pumped  two  loads 
of  buckshot  into  the  flock.  Two  birds  fell,  two  plump, 
gray  honkers,  and  Lejeune,  holding  the  birds  by  the 
necks  with  his  left  hand,  his  shotgun  in  his  right,  grinned 
hungrily  and  ordered  his  men  to  row  him  to  Bicou's 
dock. 

The  wind  was  rising.  By  the  time  the  clumsy  bateau 
was  approaching  the  dock  the  waves  were  tossing  it 
about  precariously.  Lejeune  stood  up  to  jump  as  the 
boat  washed  alongside,  but  a  treacherous  wave  spilled 
him  into  the  water  between  the  boat  and  dock.  Down 
he  went  out  of  sight  in  the  brown  water  while  the 
boat  swung  against  the  dock,  then  swung  out  again. 
Lejeune's  head  popped  up  like  a  cork,  and  Bicou,  who 
had  run  out  from  the  boathouse,  caught  him  and  whisked 
him  up  before  the  heavy  boat  could  swing  in  and  crush 
him.  Lejeune's  hat  was  gone;  so  was  his  shotgun  and 
one  shoe,  gone  irrevocably  in  the  shifting  mud  of  the 
bayou's  bottom.  But  he  grinned. 

"I  saved  'em!"  said  he,  and  held  up  the  two  geese, 
still  tightly  gripped  by  the  necks.  "I  certainly  did  save 
them  geese!" 

The  wind  grew  stronger  during  the  night,  and  in  the 


146  TWISTED  TRAILS 

morning  it  was  a  sullen  whistling  storm.  Warned  by 
Lejeune's  success  in  catching  drifters  Stephen  was  in  his 
speed  boat  at  daylight  flying  down  the  bayou  toward 
Camp  Haute  Isle.  Halfway  between  camp  and  mill  he 
found  two  long  tows  caught  in  the  storm,  the  towboats 
stranded,  and  the  logs  piling  up  in  a  tangle  that  ap- 
proached the  nature  of  a  Northern  log  jam.  The  swollen 
stream  was  slowly  forcing  the  logs  back  toward  the 
mouth  of  a  wind-whipped  lake,  and  already  scores  of 
huge  timbers  had  been  snatched  from  the  rafts  by  the 
brawling  brown  waters  and  were  whirling  away  on  a 
trip  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Cowed  by  the  howling  wind 
and  catastrophe,  the  tow  crews,  colored  and  white  alike, 
were  cowering  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  while  Carkey 
growled  and  cursed  impotently  in  the  face  of  a  logging 
problem  which  his  experience  had  not  fitted  him  to 
cope  with.  Stephen  threw  himself  at  the  task  with  all 
his  energy. 

"Get  the  cable  off  the  nearest  towboat!"  he  roared 
above  the  wind.  "We've  got  to  run  a  boom  across  the 
channel  below  the  logs!" 

Carkey  worked  willingly.  He  drove  the  men  into 
the  water  with  blows  and  worked  like  a  Trojan  him- 
self and  soon  a  solid  cable-bound  boom  of  logs  was  be- 
ing built  across  the  channel  to  hold  the  rafts  from  being 
blown  into  the  lake. 

"Straighten  out  the  jam!"  bellowed  Stephen,  as  soon 
as  the  work  was  near  completion.  "Break  it,  spread  it 
out  before  it  gets  heavy  enough  to  crash  through  the 
boom!" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  147 

Carkey  grasped  a  cant  hook  and  sprang  out  on  the 
tangle.  But  Carkey  was  so  little  the  logdriver  that  he 
wore  boots  with  no  caulks  in  the  soles.  A  wet  log 
turned  under  him  and  he  slipped  and  was  out  of  sight 
beneath  the  heaving  logs  in  an  instant.  A  moment  later 
his  head  appeared  farther  down  stream;  then  he  went 
down  again,  a  floating  butt  rubbing  him  under  as  if  he 
had  been  a  chip. 

"He  gone!"  There  was  no  regret  in  the  voice  of 
Deacon  Hogfoot.  "Carkey  gone.  Hard  man.  Cruel 
man.  Devil  got  him." 

A  lank,  scarred  white  man  spat  deliberately  into  the 
water  where  Carkey  had  disappeared  and  laughed.  Ste- 
phen dropped  the  cable  he  was  holding,  struck  the  man 
so  hard  on  the  mouth  that  he  felt  the  teeth  crack,  and 
dived  beneath  the  logs.  His  hands  groped  as  he  swam 
and  he  found  the  foreman  pinned  by  both  arms  between 
two  sticks  of  timber.  At  the  cost  of  precious  seconds 
and  the  risk  of  his  life  he  tore  him  free.  His  bursting 
lungs  cried  for  air  at  once  and  he  thrust  his  head  up, 
gulped  a  mouthful  of  life-saving  air  and  caught  hold 
of  a  floating  timber.  Slowly  he  lifted  Carkey's  great 
weight  till  the  foreman's  mouth  was  above  water,  and 
Carkey  coughed,  breathed,  opened  his  eyes. 

A  cry  from  the  men  warned  them  that  the  boom  had 
given  way.  No  one  had  taken  up  the  cable  that  Stephen 
had  dropped  when  he  leaped  to  the  rescue,  and  now  the 
logs  were  sweeping  down  the  channel  into  the  lake  as 
through  a  mill  race.  With  a  heave  of  his  body  Stephen 
threw  himself  upon  the  log  he  had  caught  and  drew 


148  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Carkey,  after  him.  Then  the  current  caught  them.  Bob- 
bing and  twisting  like  a  chip  the  log  went  through  the 
maelstrom  in  the  channel.  At  times  it  was  tossed  high  in 
the  air,  again  it  dipped  deep  toward  the  bottom,  carrying 
its  freight  out  of  sight  under  water,  but  when  at  last 
it  floated  free  of  the  jam  out  upon  the  wind-whipped 
lake  Stephen  still  clung  to  the  log  with  his  legs  and  held 
the  helpless  Carkey  in  his  arms. 

Carkey  came  to  slowly.  By  a  miracle  his  pinched 
arms  had  escaped  with  no  more  damage  than  torn  skin 
and  wrenched  muscles,  and  once  safely  ashore  he  tested 
himself  carefully,  found  himself  whole,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  looked  at  Stephen. 

"Warren " 

"Get  the  men !"  snapped  Stephen.  "No  time  to  waste. 
Get  busy  and  catch  those  logs." 

Carkey  accepted  the  order  with  a  gasp  of  relief. 

"Hey,  you!"  he  roared,  turning  on  the  men.  "Going 
to  stand  there  all  day?  Think  you're  staring  at  a  ghost? 
Get  after  those  logs.  Get  in  the  water  and  get  busy  or 
I'll  climb  your  frames!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

*  I  ^HE  wet,  cold  weather  agreed  but  poorly  with  Nailer. 
During  the  warm,  bright  days  the  horse  had  thrived. 
His  coat  shone  as  if  burnished  to  a  high  polish,  and  his 
muscles  were  beginning  to  ridge  beneath  the  supple  hide. 
But  when  the  depression  of  the  first  raw  days  of  winter 
had  made  itself  felt  Nailer  began  to  droop.  His  spirits 
suffered  from  the  change  in  the  weather,  and  in  such  a 
highly  sensitive  creature  a  falling  away  in  physical  con- 
dition followed  inevitably. 

Terry  McGurk  grew  grim  and  silent.  The  flow  of 
chatter  which  normally  welled  out  of  him  like  water 
from  an  over-full  spring  dried  up  to  a  mere  trickle  of 
monosyllables,  and  the  cheery  whistle  which  formerly 
had  announced  the  little  red-head's  approach,  ceased 
completely.  The  relapse  of  his  pride  and  hope  dealt 
him  a  blow  which  it  required  all  his  stubborn  gameness  to 
withstand.  Then,  recovering  himself,  he  bucked  up  to 
fight  the  trouble.  One  morning  he  opened  Nailer's  stall 
in  the  livery  stable  and  found  the  horse  sneezing  vigor- 
ously, and  he  felt  a  distinct  sensation  of  cold  below  his 
own  ankles  as  he  heard  the  sound.  Was  Nailer  going 
to  have  the  flu  again  ?  Was  he  going  to 

"Nailer!"   groaned  Terry,  catching  the  racer  about 

the  neck.     "Nailer,  old  boy!" 

149 


150  TWISTED  TRAILS 

The  horse  attempted  to  reply  with  a  shrill  whinny  of 
joy,  but  all  he  achieved  was  a  dismal  snuffle,  and  Terry's 
mind  was  made  up  in  a  flash.  As  soon  as  Nailer  had 
eaten  his  morning's  oats  and  had  his  morning  rub  he 
was  carefully  blanketed  and  led  forth.  A  crowd  of 
loungers,  with  Pete  Martel,  as  usual  at  their  head,  noted 
that  Terry  was  leading  the  horse  in  the  direction  of  Dr. 
Thibodeaux,  and  they  followed  idly  after. 

Terry  tied  his  animal  to  the  old  horse  block  beneath 
the  great  magnolia  trees  before  the  Doctor's  yard,  and 
strode  up  the  path  and  knocked  at  the  gallery  door. 

"Hey,  doc,"  he  called  fraternally.  "Got  a  patient  for 
you." 

The  doctor  appeared  in  the  doorway,  gravely  scrutiniz- 
ing his  young  visitor. 

"Good  morning,  Terry,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  have 
no  need  of  my  services?" 

"No,  it  ain't  for  me,  doc.  If  I  could  get  sick  it 
would  have  been  the  wooden  overcoat  for  me  years  ago. 
It's  a  friend  of  mine.  Come  out  and  give  him  the  once 
over,  will  you,  doc?" 

Dr.  Thibodeaux  understood  Terry  too  well  to  be 
shocked. 

"You  may  bring  your  patient  in,  Terry,"  said  he. 

"Can't  do  it,  doc.     He's  too  big." 

"Too  big,  Terry.  You  cannot  bring  him  in?  Then 
he  is  disabled?" 

"Just  about,  doc,"  said  Terry.  "There  he  is;  look  at 
him." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  151 

The  doctor  carefully  adjusted  his  glasses  and  looked 
whither  Terry  pointed. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  he.  "But  Jules  Simone  is  the  veteri- 
nary of  this  community,  Terry." 

"Doc,"  said  Terry  confidentially,  "letting  a  rube  hoss 
doctor  'tend  that  animal  would  be  like  asking  you  to 
'tend  an  ordinary  horse." 

"Indeed?" 

"Indeed  is  right.  You  come  on.  Nailer's  a  gent,  he 
is." 

Entirely  confident  that  the  doctor  would  follow,  Terry 
strutted  down  the  path  to  the  block.  To  his  anger  he 
saw  a  group  of  men  had  gathered  about  the  animal,  and 
as  usual  in  an  idle  group  there  the  Sheriff  was  at  its 
head. 

"I  say  he's  got  hoof  and  mouth  disease,"  drawled  the 
officer  as  Terry  appeared.  "Reckon  he  ain't  fit  to  be 
allowed  round  here." 

Dr.  Thibodeaux  greeted  each  member  of  the  group 
by  name  and  received  in  return  greetings  of  deepest  re- 
spect. And  then  he  had  his  first  glimpse  of  Nailer.  The 
doctor  came  forward  slowly,  peering  closely  at  the  colt's 
head.  He  adjusted  his  glasses  and  walked ,  around  the 
animal,  scrutinizing  it  with  his  head  cocked  to  one  side. 

"But — but — but  it  is  a  race-horse,  Terry!" 

"You're  darn  right  it's  a  race  horse,  doc!" 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken  it  is  a  Sassin  colt!" 

"You  named  him,  doctor." 

"A  Sassin  colt — in  such  condition!  You  sacrilegious 
young  devil,  have  you  no  respect  for  superior  beings? 


152  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Do  you  not  realize  the  homage  due  to  princes  of  the 
blood?  How  came  you  to  own  him?  No,  I  do  not 
care  where  you  stole  him.  How  came  you  to  let  him 
run  down  so?" 

"I  had  hard  luck,  doc." 

"Hard  luck!    Is  that  an  excuse?" 

"I'm  going  to  bring  him  around." 

"You  may  be  sure  that  you  are!  I  will  see  that  you 
do  it.  Take  him  into  my  stable  at  once.  Put  him  in  the 
large  box  stall.  Tell  Blanche,  my  cook,  to  warm  two 
quarts  of  meal  for  him.  A  colt  of  such  blood  in  such 
shape !  Forward  march !" 

"Appears  to  me  he  has  got  hoof  and  mouth  disease 
or  something  worse,"  blurted  the  Sheriff  sullenly. 

Dr.  Thibodeaux  turned  his  gaze  in  that  direction  and 
adjusted  his  glasses  carefully. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Pete?"  said  he,  and  Pete  was  instantly 
sorry  he  had  spoken.  "Good  morning,  Sheriff.  And 
how  is  our  pet  little  Snake  this  morning  ?  Have  we  cap- 
tured him  yet?" 

"We  can't  have  that  horse  around  if  he's  got  any  dis- 
ease, doctor,"  persisted  Martel,  as  if  he  had  not  heard. 

Dr.  Thibodeaux  glared  at  him,  his  head  held  back  so 
far  that  the  tiny  white  goatee  pointed  straight  at  the 
Sheriff. 

"Ah!  But  we  were  discussing  the  Snake,  Pete. — 
Terry,  did  you  not  hear?  Take  your  horse  to  my  stable 
at  once. — I  will  be  responsible  for  the  horse,  Pete.  I 
will  look  after  him.  You  have  the  Snake  to  look  after. 
Surely  you  find  that  sufficient?  Is  there  any  news  of 


TWISTED  TRAILS  153 

the  dread  outlaw,  Pete?  No?  No,  it  is  difficult  to  have 
ideas.  Shall  I  give  you  my  opinion,  Pete?  It  is  this: 
The  Snake  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  an  idea.  Just 
that :  Some  one's  idea  of  the  perfect  outlaw.  He  is  just 
a  trifle  too  perfect  in  an  imperfect  world  to  be  the  genuine 
article." 

"Well,  he  hadn't  better  come  fooling  round  here,"  said 
the  Sheriff. 

Dr.  Thibodeaux's  lean,  brown  hand,  tenderly  caressing 
his  tiny  white  goatee,  hid  the  slight  smile  that  appeared 
upon  his  mouth.  He  looked  at  Pete  intently  for  a  few 
seconds.  "I  agree  with  you,  Pete,"  he  said  at  last.  "He 
hadn't  better  come  fooling  round  here." 

Thus  Nailer  came  to  trade  his  damp,  draughty  quar- 
ters in  the  livery  stable  for  a  snug,  dry  box-stall  in  Dr. 
Thibodeaux's  stables.  The  doctor  went  over  him  from 
hind  hoofs  to  nostrils  and  stood  back  to  regard  him,  not 
with  the  expression  of  critical  contempt  with  which  he 
paid  his  respects  to  humanity,  but  with  a  gleam  of  ap- 
preciation approaching  admiration  in  his  eyes. 

"You  were  right  to  bring  him  to  me,  Terry,"  was  his 
verdict.  "To  have  placed  him  in  the  hands  of  Jules 
Simone  would  have  been  sacrilege." 

Nailer  responded  so  promptly  to  his  new  environment 
and  scientific  treatment  that  within  two  days  he  did  his 
best  to  kick  the  box  stall  as  testimonial  of  his  recovery. 

"Oh,  the  darling!"  cried  Estella.  "He's  so  full  of  the 
joy  of  life  that  he  can't  stand  still.  He  wants  to  get  out 
and  run.  I  shall  ride  him." 

"I  believe  not — not  at  present,"  was  the  doctor's  re- 


154  TWISTED  TRAILS 

tort.  "I  have  too  much  love  for  you,  petite,  to  wish  to 
see  you  up  on  Nailer.  He  is  not  quite  a  lady's  horse." 

"If  he  were  I  wouldn't  care  a  bit  about  him,"  laughed 
the  girl. 

"He  is  very  wild  at  times." 

"So  am  I,  uncle.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  wild  as  the 
little  swamp  angel  you  found  splashing  her  bare  legs  in 
the  water.  I  know  just  how  Nailer  feels,  cooped  up  in 
that  stall.  There  are  times  when  I  feel  that  way,  too." 

"Yes,  petite,"  chuckled  the  old  man.  "You  are  still 
very  young." 

At  first  Nailer  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  presence  of 
Estella  near  his  stall.  There  had  been  no  women  in 
the  bachelor  existence  of  Terry  and  himself  and  this 
strange  creature,  bringing  into  the  stable  an  aura  so 
different  from  that  which  surrounded  men,  was  subtly 
disturbing.  Once  when  Estella  came  into  the  stable  alone 
Nailer  reared  and  pounded  at  the  walls  of  his  stall  in 
an  effort  to  drive  her  away.  When  he  subsided  he  saw 
the  girl  still  standing  there,  calmly  awaiting  the  end  of 
his  tantrum.  Nailer  breathed  deep  and  grew  calm.  He 
was  a  little  surprised.  The  aura  which  surrounded  this 
strange  creature  was  distinctly  one  of  sympathy,  of 
friendliness.  It  was  a  strangely  different  aura  which  sur- 
rounded the  beloved  Terry,  and  yet  there  was  in  it  some 
of  the  same  lure  and  attraction,  and  as  Nailer  yearned 
for  the  feel  of  Terry's  hand  upon  him  when  the  little 
fellow  was  near,  so  now  he  was  attracted  toward  this 
strange  being.  He  hesitated  for  awhile  because  he  was 
a  prince  of  the  blood  and  very  exclusive,  but  after  an- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  155 

other  long,  assuring  breath  he  thrust  his  beautiful  head 
over  the  stall  door.  He  knew  at  once  that  his  sixth  sense 
had  guided  him  right. 

"Nice  Nailer!"  she  said.  Nailer  whinnied  softly. 
Her  hand  moved  lightly  down  his  neck. 

"Oh,  you  darling!"  she  murmured.  "You  splendid 
beauty !" 

After  that  day  their  friendship  grew  rapidly.  When 
Terry  took  him  out  for  his  training  gallops  the  horse 
frequently  reached  for  the  bit  and  despite  all  the  weight 
Terry  put  on  the  reins  would  prance  over  to  Estella  and 
bow  his  head  for  the  touch  of  her  hand.  The  colt  was 
becoming  accustomed  to  the  raw  weather  and  under  the 
care  of  the  doctor  and  Terry  was  rounding  steadily  into 
form.  Dr.  Thibodeaux  was  intensely  solicitous  for  the 
racer's  welfare. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why?"  he  said  one  evening  as  he  super- 
vised Terry's  application  of  the  pungent  body-wash  on 
the  colt.  "It  is  because  Nailer  may  deal  the  beloved 
Martels  a  knock  in  the  pocket  book.  That  is  why  I 
regard  him  highly." 

"He'll  soon  be  in  shape  to  try  out  a  full  mile  at  his 
limit,"  said  Terry.  "I  ain't  saying  anything,  doc,  you 
understand;  but  get  your  watch  out  when  we  run  it." 

One  evening  Stephen  found  Terry  McGurk  waiting 
for  him  at  the  office  with  the  light  in  his  eyes  of  the  en- 
thusiast who  sees  his  dreams  realized. 

"Say,  Big  Fellow,  you  ought  to  come  and  take  a  look 
at  Nailer  this  evening,"  said  Terry.  "Remember  we're 


156  TWISTED  TRAILS 

getting  him  ready  for  the  Mardi  Gras  Handicap,  and 
that  day  ain't  so  far  off  now.  Going  to  work  him  a  mile 
at  his  limit  this  evening." 

Terry  had  measured  off  a  mile  on  the  black  dirt  road 
which  separated  the  rear  of  Doctor  Thibodeaux's  grounds 
from  the  great  cane  field  beyond,  and  where  morning, 
noon  and  evening  he  worked  at  the  task  of  bringing 
Nailer  round  to  form. 

On  the  evening  that  Stephen  went  out  to  see  the  horse 
run  there  was  a  considerable  crowd  upon  the  scene,  for 
they  knew  horses  at  Lily  City,  and  Nailer  now  was  a  sight 
to  delight  the  eye  of  any  horseman.  In  truth  it  was  a 
different  colt  that  Terry  now  paraded  for  inspection. 
A.  few  weeks  had  worked  marvels  in  his  condition.  The 
colt  now  stood  up  'with  a  proud  bearing,  fiery  yet  gentle, 
as  a  colt  of  his  breeding  should  stand.  He  seemed  taller 
and  longer  and  closer  muscled  than  he  had  appeared  when 
out  of  condition.  The  fine  hair  of  his  deep  bay  coat 
clung  sleekly  to  his  hide,  and  all  over  his  body  there  was 
appearing  the  rich,  dark  glow  which  helped  to  make  him 
a  sight  to  gladden  the  eyes  of  the  horse  lover.  In  his 
eyes  there  smoldered  the  fire  of  warriors  and  the  appeal- 
ing gentleness  of  a  colt.  A  horseman  would  have  liked 
to  own  Nailer;  a  woman's  impulse  would  be  to  hug 
him. 

"Here,  Nailer,  old  boy,"  said  Terry,  tendering  the  colt 
a  piece  of  golden  corn  bread  which  Blanche,  the  huge 
black  cook  at  Doctor  Thibodeaux's,  had  given  him.  "A 
little  cake  won't  hurt  you  now;  you're  getting  right." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  157 

From  Lejeune,  the  always  hungry  deputy  sheriff,  came 
a  groan  of  disapproval. 

"Ain't  grain  good  enough  for  him?"  he  muttered. 
"What's  the  sense  of  feeding  an  animal  human  vittles?" 

"Cheer  up,  Lejeune,"  said  Terry,  swinging  a  leg  over 
the  pigskin.  "Some  day  when  I'm  a  millionaire  I'll  take 
a  week  off  and  feed  you  all  you  can  eat.  Whoa,  Nailer, 
steady  there !  What's  the  matter  ?" 

The  colt  had  reared  wildly,  sniffing  the  air  and  whirl- 
ing round  on  his  hind  legs  in  spite  of  Terry's  hands  on 
the  reins.  Stephen  followed  the  colt's  frightened  look 
and  saw  Georges  Martel  approaching  leisurely,  his  large 
boar  hound,  Herod,  at  his  heels. 

"Go  ahead,  Terry,"  laughed  Georges.  "The  dog  won't 
hurt  him.  Hello,  Warren.  I  hear  you've  taken  up  rac- 
ing. Man,  why  do  you  make  yourself  so  scarce?  Why 
don't  you  call  on  a  fellow  ?  Don't  you  ever  do  anything 
but  work?" 

The  manner  in  which  Georges  was  received  by  the 
natives  was  puzzling.  The  Martels  were  the  grand 
seigneurs  of  Lily  City,  and  Georges  was  the  prince  of 
the  house;  but  he  was  not  a  beloved  prince.  The  crowd 
of  loungers  drew  away,  tendering  him  the  deference 
which  they  had  been  accustomed  from  childhood  to  yield 
him,  but  there  was  no  heartiness  in  the  greetings  they 
gave  him.  One  by  one  they  drifted  down  the  road  to 
follow  the  colt,  leaving  Stephen  and  Georges  alone. 

"I  work  most  of  the  time,"  replied  Stephen.  "That's 
what  I'm  here  for." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Georges  lightly.     "But 


158  TWISTED  TRAILS 

there  are  other  things  in  life  besides  work.  Are  you 
taking  up  racing  seriously?" 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  taking  it  up  at  all,"  said  Ste- 
phen. 

"You're  backing  McGurk,  aren't  you?" 

"I  staked  him  to  get  his  horse  in  condition,  that's  all." 

"So  I  understand.  Are  you  backing  the  horse,  too, 
Warren?" 

Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"Then  what's  the  idea  of  helping  get  him  in  condi- 
tion ?  Business  men  like  you  don't  do  such  things  out  of 
sheer  philanthropy,  do  they?" 

"If  you  insist  on  knowing,"  was  the  reply,  "I  thought 
it  a  shame  to  see  him  beaten  that  day  over  at  the  track. 
I  wanted  to  see  him  have  a  chance." 

"For  the  Mardi  Gras  Handicap,  you  mean?" 

"Not  particularly,  no.  A  chance  to  do  himself  justice 
in  general.  Why?  You  seem  greatly  interested,  Mar- 
tel." 

"Not  greatly,  Warren,  slightly.  The  Hammer  is  in  the 
Handicap,  too,  you  know." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  Nailer?"  laughed  Warren. 

"Afraid?"  purred  Georges  with  a  smile.  "Is  that  a 
good  word  for  you  to  use  here,  Warren?" 

"Terry  is  dead  sure  he  is  going  to  lick  you,"  said 
Stephen,  paying  no  attention  to  the  question. 

"And  Terry's  backer — what  does  he  think?" 

"No;  you  can't  get  a  bet  out  of  me,  Martel." 

"Are  you — 'afraid'  to  back  your  opinions,  Warren?" 

"Afraid?"     Stephen    was    about    to    repeat    Martel's 


TWISTED  TRAILS  159 

question  about  the  appropriateness  of  the  word,  but  a 
look  showed  that  Georges  was  on  the  brink  of  anger  and 
he  desisted.  "Let  it  go  at  that,"  he  said.  "There — he's 
starting." 

Terry  had  put  Nailer  on  the  starting  line  a  mile  away. 

Georges'  stop  watch  came  out  swiftly,  and  as  the  crowd 
shouted:  "Go!"  he  set  the  second  hand  going.  As  the 
horse  came  down  the  road  like  a  flying  arrow  and  swept 
past  he  stopped  the  watch  and  looked  at  the  dial. 

"How  fast?"  asked  Stephen. 

Martel  put  the  watch  away. 

"Oh,  not  so  very  fast,"  he  drawled;  but  as  he  turned 
away  he  cast  a  look  at  the  colt  which  spelled  murder. 

Georges  Martel  knew  race-horses.  For  a  hundred  years 
there  had  been  fast  horses  on  the  Martel  plantation,  and 
the  instinct  for  the  thoroughbred  was  bred  in  the  young 
man's  bones.  He  had  misjudged  Nailer  sadly  at  New 
Orleans,  deceived  by  the  colt's  poor  condition,  and  since 
the  horse  had  come  to  Lily  City  he  had  scarcely  given 
him  a  thought.  It  would  have  been  ridiculously  im- 
proper to  admit  to  oneself  that  a  penniless  hanger-on  like 
Terry  might  possess  an  animal  fit  to  be  classed  with  The 
Hammer.  In  the  space  of  a  trifle  over  a  hundred  seconds 
this  evening  Georges'  appraisal  of  Nailer  had  undergone 
a  complete  reversal.  It  was  not  merely  that  the  bay  had 
run  a  fast  mile ;  it  was  the  manner  in  which  the  feat  had 
been  accomplished.  The  first  quarter  of  the  mile  had  been 
slowest;  in  each  succeeding  quarter  Nailer  had  clipped 
a  second  off  the  quarter  preceding;  and  he  was  running 
his  fastest  at  the  finish.  Nor  was  that  all.  Georges'  ex- 


160  TWISTED  TRAILS 

perienced  eyes  told  him  that  this  speed  was  no  result 
of  an  accidental  burst  of  energy,  such  as  might  come  to 
any  fair  thoroughbred;  it  was  the  natural  product  of 
Nailer  as  he  was  to-day.  The  bay  horse  would  turn  off 
such  miles  with  the  consistency  of  a  machine,  provided 
nothing  happened  to  him;  and  to  Georges  Martel,  who 
was  borrowing  money  to  back  The  Hammer  to  win  the 
Mardi  Gras  classic,  this  was  a  very  serious  matter.  He 
smiled  as  he  considered  the  proposition.  Of  course 
Nailer  must  not  be  allowed  a  chance  to  win.  The  owners 
of  the  other  horses  which  had  a  chance  in  the  race  had 
listened  to  reason,  and  The  Hammer  had  the  right  of 
way.  To  have  a  coup — a  killing  which  was  to  yield  a 
fortune — exposed  to  the  danger  of  an  upset  by  Terry 
McGurk  would  be  too  ridiculous.  Georges  took  two 
stiff  drinks  of  whiskey  in  swift  succession  and  called  up 
his  trainer  by  long  distance  and  received  a  report  on  The 
Hammer's  recent  trials. 

"Very  good,"  said  he.  "Yes,  very  good,  Harris.  Good 
night." 

"Hell '."said  he  to  himself. 

He  helped  himself  to  two  more  stiff  whiskies.  Light- 
ing a  cigarette  he  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair  and 
stared  intently  into  the  smoke.  It  was  convenient  that 
Nailer  was  training  at  Lily  City. 

A  few  days  later,  however,  he  was  not  so  sure.  Terry 
McGurk,  when  approached  by  a  stranger  from  New 
Orleans,  refused  absolutely  to  put  a  price  upon  Nailer. 
He  would  no  more  sell  him  than  he  would  part  willingly 
with  his  own  head.  The  stranger  took  another  tack. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  161 

Nailer  couldn't  win  the  Handicap  on  his  merits,  but  why 
not  make  sure  he  wouldn't  win  accidentally.  Terry  could 
clean  up  a  big  slice  of  real  big  money.  Real  Big  Money, 
you  understand. 

"Pull  him?"  gasped  Terry  in  horror.  "You  mean — 
putt  Nailer?" 

Words  failed  him  and  he  looked  around  for  a  weapon 
of  offense,  and  the  stranger  went  away  hurriedly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

STELLA  REID'S  desire  to  ride  Nailer  grew  with 
each  day  that  she  watched  the  colt  round  into 
form.  There  still  lingered  within  her  enough  of  the 
little  wild  swamp  angel,  who  for  the  sake  of  adventure 
had  cruised  strange  bayous  in  her  pirogue,  to  make  her 
long  for  one  ride  on  the  flying  racer.  She  envied  Terry 
as  she  saw  him,  crouched  low  over  Nailer's  neck,  with 
the  wind  whistling  past  his  ears  during  a  stiff  gallop; 
and  the  fact  that  there  was  an  element  of  danger  in 
mounting  the  fiery  colt  held  an  added  lure  for  her. 

The  understanding  between  herself  and  Nailer  now 
was  complete.  She  entered  his  box  stall  alone  without 
the  slightest  danger,  for  the  horse  grew  docile  and  gentle 
the  moment  he  heard  her  voice.  When  something  an- 
noyed His  Highness  and  he  indulged  in  one  of  his 
periodic  attempts  at  annihilating  everything  within  reach 
of  his  heels,  it  was  sufficient  for  the  girl  to  appear  at  his 
stall  to  quiet  him. 

"I  will  ride  you,"  she  said  one  day  as  he  muzzled  her 
shoulder  with  his  velvet  nose.  "Don't  tell  anybody, 
Nailer,  but  some  day  you  and  I  are  going  for  a  ride." 

She  began  by  softly  rubbing  a  bit  across  his  lips.  Ter- 
ry McGurk  had  been  so  patient  and  gentle  in  breaking 
Nailer  to  bridle  that  from  Terry's  hands  he  took  the  bit 

162 


TWISTED  TRAILS  163 

eagerly.  For  a  stable  hand  to  bridle  him  was  a  task 
that  involved  danger  of  battle,  mayhem  and  broken  bones. 
Estelle  gradually  accustomed  him  to  take  the  bit  from 
her,  and  soon  she  bridled  and  saddled  him  as  easily  as 
did  Terry. 

One  day,  when  Dr.  Thibodeaux  was  attending  an  acci- 
dent case  over  at  the  mill,  she  donned  her  riding  habit, 
and  mounted  into  the  saddle.  It  was  a  momentous  occa- 
sion. Nailer  stood  stock  still  in  surprise.  Then  he  looked 
around  curiously.  He  sensed  that  this  creature  was  dif- 
ferent from  Terry,  but  her  hands  on  the  reins  were  steady 
and  the  grip  of  her  knees  firm.  The  door  of  the  stall 
was  wide  open,  and  outside  was  the  black  dirt  road. 
Nailer  whinnied  with  gladness,  bolted  through  the  door 
and  began  to  run. 

At  first  Estella  was  frightened  at  what  she  had  done, 
but  with  the  first  rush  of  air  against  her  face  this  passed 
away,  and  she  gave  herself  up  heedlessly,  recklessly  to 
the  thrill  of  the  matchless  flight.  For  a  space  she  was 
entirely  concerned  with  the  problem  of  keeping  her  seat. 
Nailer  had  gone  into  full  speed  the  moment  he  felt  the 
soft  dirt  beneath  his  hoofs,  and  she  crouched  against  the 
whistling  air  and  held  on  for  dear  life.  So  swift  was 
their  flight  that  not  until  she  felt  the  thud  of  the  hard 
main  road  under  foot  did  she  realize  how  they  had 
traveled,  and  then  she  sought  to  stop.  But  Nailer  was 
enjoying  himself.  The  joy  of  the  runner  spurning  the 
ground  was  in  his  veins  and  he  had  no  mind  to  forego 
his  fun.  He  reached  for  the  bit,  got  it  and  went  on  with- 
out slackening  his  stride.  A  little  shiver  ran  through 


164  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Estella.  Nailer  was  running  away!  And  then  she  be- 
gan to  fight  for  the  mastery.  The  horse  lunged  against 
the  bit,  nearly  dragging  her  from  the  saddle,  but  the 
reins  in  her  hands  did  not  slip  an  inch.  Her  arms  ached ; 
at  times  it  seemed  they  would  be  pulled  from  the  sockets, 
but  she  refused  to  relieve  the  strain  by  easing  her  grip. 
Her  little  chin  set  resolutely  and  two  tiny  ridges  of 
muscles  appeared  on  either  side  of  her  tightly  pressed 
lips.  She  gained  a  little  and  wound  the  reins  around  her 
hands.  Nailer  shook  his  head  angrily  and  she  seized  the 
opportunity  to  jerk  his  mouth  in  the  air.  For  a  half  mile 
further  he  fought  against  her  strength  and  will,  then  with 
a  snort  of  disgust  he  dropped  from  the  drumming  gallop 
to  a  long  slow  lope,  from  the  lope  to  a  trot,  and  finally 
to  a  walk. 

"You're  a  nice  one !"  she  panted.  "Oh !  you  are  a  bad 
boy!" 

She  pulled  him  to  a  dead  stop  and  dismounted.  The 
terrific  ride  and  struggle  had  shaken  her  and  she  rested 
until  she  had  recovered  her  breath  and  strength. 

"Bad  Nailer !"  she  said  at  last  and  turned  him  toward 
home. 

As  she  prepared  to  mount,  a  motor  car  came  hurtling 
toward  her  at  a  furious  speed  and  as  she  hurriedly  led 
the  horse  to  one  side  the  car  came  to  a  stop  with  a  shriek 
of  the  brakes  and  Georges  Martel  leaped  out. 

"I  saw  you  from  our  windows,"  said  he.  "I  followed 
as  soon  as  I  could.  You  are  all  right?  He  ran  away, 
didn't  he?" 

"Oh!  but  he  can  run!"  she  exclaimed,  still  thrilled 


TWISTED  TRAILS  165 

from  the  ride.  "Isn't  he  a  beauty,  Georges?"  He  nodded 
negligently  without  looking  at  the  horse  and  came  closer. 

"You're  the  beauty,  Estella,"  he  murmured.  "I  never 
saw  you  so  beautiful.  Your  eyes  are  aflame  and  your 
tumbled  hair — you  are  adorable !"  He  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it  passionately,  and  she  looked  at  him,  one  hand 
holding  Nailer's  bridle,  without  resistance  or  acquies- 
cence. 

"It's  funny,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "that  doesn't 
thrill  me  at  all  any  more.  Not  since  I've  come  back 
from  school.  I  wonder  if  I  have  changed,  or  you?" 

"Neither  of  us  has  changed,  Estella." 

"Well,  maybe  not,  but  until — until  I  know  my  own 
mind  more  clearly,  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that  any  more, 
Georges,  if  you  please." 

"As  you  wish,  Estella,"  he  said,  smiling  confidently. 
"It  is  right  that  you  allow  yourself  to  become  accustomed 
to  the  old  place  again.  But  you  know,  of  course,  that 
I  still  love  you?" 

"Do  you,  Georges  ?"  she  said,  after  a  long  scrutiny  of 
his  eyes. 

"Estella!" 

"All  right,  all  right!  Don't  take  my  hand  again  like 
that,  will  you  ?  That's  a  duck.  Let  us  talk  about  Nailer, 
Georges.  Isn't  he  a  wonder  ?  Do  you  think  The  Ham- 
mer will  beat  him?" 

"I  am  sure  he  will,"  said  Georges. 

"Sure?     How  can  you  be  sure  in  a  horse  race?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "one  .can  be  sure  even  in  a  horse  race." 

"How?" 


166  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Oh !"  he  said,  smiling  playfully,  "by  a  certain  sort  of 
foresight.  It  is  very  simple.  I  can't  explain,  but  you 
may  take  my  word  for  it :  Nailer  will  not  beat  The  Ham- 
mer in  the  Handicap." 

"Why,  Georges,  you  talk  as  if  you  had  positive  knowl- 
edge to  that  effect." 

"And  so  I  have,"  he  said  grimly,  walking  round  the 
colt.  "Nailer  will  not  beat  The  Hammer.  Rather  a  pity 
this  colt  is  to  be  beaten,  too.  A  likely  animal.  In  good 
condition,  too.  They  must  be  training  him  carefully. 
They  keep  him  in  the  big  box  stall,  I  suppose?  The 
trouble  is  young  McGurk  is'so  fussy  about  him  I  suppose 
he's  around  him  all  night  and  making  him  nervous?" 

"No,  he  isn't,"  she  replied  innocently.  "Uncle  gives 
him  an  examination  after  Terry  has  bedded  him  down 
and  then  they  leave  him  for  the  night" 

"All  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"And  now — up!"  he  said,  making  a  rest  of  his  hands. 
"As  I  said  before,  you  are  adorable,  Estella;  and  Nailer 
is  such  a  nice  colt  it  is  rather  too  bad  he  has  no  chance  to 
win." 

Estella  rode  home  as  slowly  as  Nailer  could  be-  forced 
to  go.  Georges'  words  had  disturbed  her.  Apparently 
he  had  reasons  for  feeling  sure  that  Nailer  would  not 
win.  Yet,  she  knew  enough  about  horse-racing  to  know 
that  if  a  race  was  to  be  run  honestly  no  owner  ever  pro- 
claimed himself  sure  that  any  horse  in  the  field  would 
win. 

The  touch  of  Georges'  lips  seemed  to  linger  upon  her 


TWISTED  TRAILS  167 

hand  and  instinctively  she  rubbed  it  against  her  skirt. 

"Now  why  did  I  do  that?"  she  demanded,  holding  the 
hand  up  to  laugh  at  it.  "Never  mind ;  I  am  glad  I  did." 

That  night  she  accompanied  her  uncle  to  see  Nailer 
bedded  down  for  the  night.  As  the  stable  door  was 
closed  and  Terry  betook  himself  to  his  lodgings,  a  sud- 
den thought  filled  her  mind.  It  couldn't  possibly  mean 
anything;  she  scoffed  at  the  idea.  Nevertheless  she  was 
deeply  disturbed  over  the  memory  of  Georges'  manner 
.when  he  asked  whether  Nailer  was  left  all  alone  at  night. 

At  about  the  same  time  that  this  thought  was  troubling 
Estella's  mind,  Stephen  Warren  was  stepping  into  his 
speed-boat  down  in  the  swamp,  preparatory  to  returning 
to  Lily  City  after  a  hard  day's  work.  Carkey  stood  on 
the  bank,  arms  akimbo,  looking  down  at  the  boat. 

"Is  Terry  keeping  an  eye  on  that  nag  of  his?"  he  said 
suddenly. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Stephen.  "I  understand  he  spends 
all  his  spare  time  with  him." 

"I  mean  nights,"  growled  Carkey.  "If  he's  going  to 
make  him  worth  a  bet  why  the  hell  don't  he  watch  him 
right?" 

"Perhaps  he  does." 

"Naw,  he  don't!"  the  foreman  caught  himself,  Ste- 
phen looked  up  sharply.  "Anyhow,  I  guess  he  don't.  It's 
like  him  to  leave  him  alone  nights,  and  something  might 
happen  to  him.  Might  happen  to-night."  Carkey  shifted 
from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  spat  uneasily  into  the 
water,  for  Warren's  eyes  were  steadily  searching  him 
through  and  through. 


168  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Out  with  it,  Carkey,"  said  Stephen  suddenly.  "What's 
on  your  mind  ?" 

"It  might  happen  to-night,"  repeated  the  foreman,  dog- 
gedly. 

"Who  told  you  Nailer  is  left  alone  at  night  ?"  demanded 
Warren.  "What's  the  significance  if  he  is?" 

Carkey  looked  over  Warren's  head  into  the  gloom  of 
the  swamp.  At  last  he  turned  away.  "You  can  get  some- 
thing out  of  what  I  said,"  he  growled,  "or  you  can  go  to 
hell." 

Warren  reached  Lily  City  after  midnight,  for  the  bayou 
was  high  in  water  and  speckled  with  half-hidden  logs  and 
snags,  which  made  fast  running  impossible.  The  town 
had  long  ago  gone  to  bed.  So  peaceful  and  innocent  did 
the  slumbering  hamlet  appear  that  Stephen  stood  unde- 
cided, but  Carkey's  words  were  disturbing  and  Carkey 
was  not  the  sort  of  a  man  to  waste  language.  He  had 
a  good  reason  for  his  unwonted  speech.  In  fact  he  must 
have  been  deeply  troubled  or  he  would  not  have  repeated 
the  remark  that  something  might  happen  to  Nailer  to- 
night. 

"He  knew  it,"  decided  Stephen,  and  set  out  for  Dr. 
Thibodeaux's  stable.  It  was  a  dark  night  and  there  were 
no  lights  burning  to  relieve  the  gloom.  The  ground  under- 
foot was  so  soft  that  it  gave  no  sound  underfoot,  and 
Warren  was  too  much  the  woodsman  to  blunder  into 
obstacles  even  in  the  dark.  So  far  as  he  could  discover 
there  was  nothing  wrong  about  the  stable.  The  gate  into 
the  road  was  closed  and  the  catch  in  place.  He  squeezed 
through  the  fence  and  made  his  way  noiselessly  to  the 


TWISTED  TRAILS  169 

stable.  All  was  well  there.  He  seated  himself  on  a 
bench  near  the  door  to  think  it  over,  and  presently  he 
sensed  that  he  was  not  alone  in  the  yard.  The  inexplicable 
sixth  sense  of  the  woodsman  had  warned  him  before  his 
ears  or  eyes  could  detect  a  sign,  and  at  last  the  swish  of 
a  rosebush  in  the  garden  focused  his  attention.  Listen- 
ing intently  he  caught  the  faint  sound  of  cautious  foot- 
steps. Some  one  had  entered  the  grounds  from  the  front 
and  was  coming  toward  the  stable.  Whoever  it  was,  Ste- 
phen decided,  was  properly  cautious.  He  caught  the 
sound  of  two  carefully  placed  steps,  then  silence.  Min- 
utes passed,  then  the  sound  of  a  few  more  soft  steps 
and  silence  again.  Stephen  waited  motionless,  breathing 
noiselessly.  He  waited  until  he  could  distinguish  the 
vague  outline  of  a  figure  crouched  behind  a  shrub  a  few 
yards  away.  The  size  or  nature  of  the  figure  he  could  not 
determine,  but  he  judged  it  to  be  that  of  a  man,  crouched 
down  to  peer  through  the  shrubbery  at  the  stable  door, 
and  he  silently  leaned  forward  upon  the  balls  of  his  feet. 
The  figure  behind  the  shrub  rose  likewise,  and  Stephen 
sprang.  His  left  hand  caught  a  fist  with  a  revolver  in  it, 
his  right  arm  flashed  around  the  other's  body.  A  strand 
of  hair  flicked  across  his  eyes.  Its  touch  stunned  him,  left 
him  incapable  of  thought  or  action. 

"Miss  Reid!" 

"Ok!    You?'f 

She  leaned  back  against  his  arm,  and  he  leaned  toward 
her.  For  seconds  they  stood  so,  then  he  let  her  go.  The 
revolver  fell  to  the  ground.  He  picked  it  up  and  handed 
it  to  her,  not  realizing  what  he  did.  Presently  they  began 


rl70  TWISTED  TRAILS 

to  speak  to  conceal  the  stress  of  the  emotions  which  the 
moment  had  awakened  in  them. 

"Is  Nailer  all  right  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  in  reply.  "I  have  been  watching 
all  night.  I  heard  some  one  come  through  the  fence  and 
came  out." 

"You  have  been  watching?" 

"Yes.    I — I  felt  something  might  happen  to  him/* 

"I  came  because  Carkey  told  me  something  might  hap- 
pen if  he  wasn't  watched,"  whispered  Stephen. 

For  a  space  they  stood  silent.  Suddenly  she  whirled 
round.  "What's  that  ?" 

"I  don't  hear  anything."    They  still  spoke  in  whispers. 

"It's  a  dog  sniffing  around  the  barn,"  she  said;  and  out 
in  the  road  a  hoarse  whisper  sounded :. 

"Herod !    Damn  you,  Herod,  come  here !" 

Then  the  sound  of  swift  steps  running  away  down  the 
soft  dirt  road. 

Estella  turned  to  go 'to  the  house,  and  paused. 

"Did  you  recognize  the  voice?"  she  asked,  fearfully, 

"Yes." 

"Who — who  was  it?" 

"The  Sheriff,"  lied  Stephen,  "Pete  Martel." 


CHAPTER  XX 

T  ILY  CITY  slumbered.  Beneath  a  starless  and  clouded 
•"^  sky  a  night  of  midwinter  darkness  lay  on  the  place 
like  a  pall.  The  wide-spreading  branches 'of  the  live  oak 
and  magnolia  trees  were  vague  shrouds  of  the  night,  and 
beneath  them  the  open  spaces  seemed  vast  caverns  of 
empty  darkness.  The  night  mists  of  January  rose  dense 
and  clammy  to  supplement  the  Stygian  darkness,  and 
through  them  the  infrequent  lights  along  the  bayou 
glowed  dully  like  points  of  a  red-hot  iron  in  a  blanket 
of  fog. 

Over  the  house  and  grounds  of  Doctor  Thibodeaux 
brooded  the  peace  and  darkness  of  night  In  his  bed- 
room, a  room  in  which  were  gathered  the  trophies  of  his 
wanderings  over  the  face  of  the  world,  the  doctor  slept 
peacefully  in  his  four-poster,  a  book  on  the  floor  beside 
the  bed,  and  on  the  book  cigarettes  and  matches  in  readi- 
ness for  the  morning's  awakening.  In  the  old  slave 
cabin  in  one  corner  of  the  grounds  behind  the  house 
Blanche,  the  cook,  and  her  indiscriminate  brood  snored 
behind  windows  and  doors  tightly  closed  with  wooden 
shutters  to  resist  the  ingress  of  the  evil  spirits  of  the 
night.  In  a  room  in  the  stables,  in  the  other  corner  of 
the  big  yard,  Terry  McGurk  dreamed  vigorously  of  a 
scene  which  included  a  race  track,  a  mighty  throng,  and 

171 


172  TWISTED  TRAILS 

a  bay  colt  named  Nailer  showing  a  beaten  field  the  way 
to  the  wire. 

But  in  the  room  of  Estella  Reid,  in  a  wing  of  the 
doctor's  house,  there  was  no  slumber  or  peace.  Fully 
dressed,  the  girl  sat  in  the  dark,  listening  to  the  mellow 
ticking  of  an  old-fashioned  clock  in  the  hall.  At  times 
she  looked  at  the  letter  crushed  in  her  hand.  The  clock 
struck  ten  softly,  and  she  rose  up  and  threw  a  cloak 
about  her  shoulders.  On  tiptoes  she  moved  to  the  door 
of  the  doctor's  room  and  listened.  Assured  that  he  slept 
she  returned  to  her  own  room  and  unfastened  the  long 
French  windows  which  led  directly  into  the  garden  of 
roses  behind  the  house.  A  carefully  timed  leap,  and  she 
was  on  the  ground.  The  darkness  and  mists  hid  her, 
and  drops  of  the  congealed  fog  fell  from  the  drenched 
live  oaks  upon  her  bare  head. 

A  tiny  pin  prick  of  light  showed  in  the  gloom  of  the 
garden,  showed  for  the  flash  of  a  moment.  Again  it 
shone,  this  time  on  a  path  leading  toward  the  pagoda- 
like  summerhouse.  A  heavy  foot  crunched  on  the  gravel ; 
there  was  a  sound  of  stumbling.  The  light  glowed  again, 
held  low,  pointing  down  and  illuminating  the  white  shell 
pathway.  It  approached  the  summerhouse  swiftly. 

At  the  doorway  it  was  raised  suddenly,  and  Georges 
Mart  el  chuckled  softly  as  its  rays  revealed  Estella  stand- 
ing before  him. 

"Don't  laugh,  Georges,"  she  said  seriously.  "I  came 
out  because  your  letter  was  so  insistent,  but  I  assure  you 
I  do  not  feel  happy  about  it." 

He  disregarded  her  words  and  manner,  and  stood  with 


TWISTED  TRAILS  173 

the  light  full  upon  her  face,  feasting  his  eyes  upon  the 
picture  she  made. 

"It  is  the  darkest  night  I  have  ever  known,"  he  mur- 
mured. "So  dark  I  could  scarcely  find  my  way  even  with 
the  flash  light.  Love  is  not  blind;  the  man  who  said 
that  was  a  fool.  Love  has  eyes  to  see  through  the  night, 
and  it  guided  me  straight  to  you." 

"The  light  blinds  me,  Georges,"  she  whispered. 

"But  I  want  to  look  at  you,  Estella,"  he  responded  in 
his  caressing  tone  of  voice.  "I  never  knew  before  how 
much  I  wanted  to  look  at  you.  You  stand  there  like  a 
ray  of  light  and  hope  in  a  dark  world.  That  is  what 
you  are  to  me,  Estella,  light  and  hope — my  only  hope." 
He  leaned  toward  her,  but  she  drew  away  slightly  and 
he  did  not  offer  to  touch  her.  "That  is  why  I  asked  you 
to  come  here  to-night,  Estella,  and  why  I  was  so  insistent. 
We  haven't  had  a  good  chance  to  meet  for  ever  so  long, 
and  I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  You  have  seemed  to 
avoid  me  ever  since  you  returned  from  school.  You 
don't  seem  to  trust  me  as  you  used  to  do.  Why  is  it? 
Have  I  changed ;  do  you  think  I  have  changed  ?" 

"No."  Her  voice  was  low,  scarcely  more  than  a  whis- 
per, yet  it  was  positive  enough.  "No,  I  don't  think  you 
have  changed  at  all,  Georges." 

"Then  why  are  you  different?  Why  don't  you  trust 
me  as  you  used  to  do?" 

"I  was  only  a  child,  then,  Georges.  I  didn't  know 
anything." 

"But  what  do  you  know  now,  Estella;  I  mean  that 
should  make  things  so  different  between  us?" 


174  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Is  that  why  you  asked  me  to  meet  you  here  to- 
night?" she  asked. 

"It  is.  I  have  to  know;  we  can't  have  a  misunder- 
standing. Has  anything  happened?  Have  I  done  any- 
thing to  offend  you?" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Put  the  light  out,"  she  said  presently.  She  drew  her 
cloak  more  tightly  about  her. 

"Georges,  you  know  I  have  grown  up  since  Uncle 
Armand  came  and  sent  me  away.  Before,  I  was  only 
a  child.  I  didn't  understand  things.  Of  course,  I  heard 
things,  but  I  didn't  know  then  what  they  meant." 

"You  heard  things — about  me,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  want  to  speak  of  it — but  I  understand 
things  now." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  he.  "That  is  why  I  asked  to  see  you 
like  this.  Estella,  I  have  been  wild,  reckless;  I  admit  it. 
And  why?  Because  you  were  not  here.  Now  you  are 
here,  and  now  I  come  to  you  and  cast  myself  upon  your 
mercy.  What  is  past  is  past.  The  future — my  future — 
is  all  in  your  hands.  If  you  will  marry  me  everything 
will  be  different.  Estella,  you  will,  won't  you?  Let  us 
go  away  now,  to-night,  and  be  married  at  once.  Then 
our  true  lives  will  begin.  Come.  The  night  train  will 
be  through  soon.  To-morrow  we  can  be  man  and  wife. 
Come  just  as  you  are." 

"Georges!"  she  said.  "Georges,  you  can't  mean 
that?" 

"I  do.  I  mean  it  as  much  as  if  my  life  depended  upon 
it." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  175 

"Give  me  the  light,"  said  Estella.  "Why,"  she  ex- 
claimed when  she  had  turned  the  light  upon  his  face,  "I 
really  believe  you  are  sincere." 

"Sincere!"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"But  why — why  do  you  come  like  this,  so  suddenly?" 

"Because  I  could  bear  the  uncertainty  no  longer." 

"But  you've  borne  it  very  well  up  to  now,  it  seemed 
to  me." 

"Because  I  appeared  to,  you  mean.  Estella,  if  you 
only  knew  what  I  have  suffered.  If  you " 

He  met  her  steady,  searching  eyes  and  halted  abruptly. 
The  hot  speech  died  on  his  lips. 

"I  see  I  alarm  you,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Pardon  me  for  being  so  abrupt,  Estella;  my  feelings 
carried  me  away." 

"Your  feelings?"  she  said  doubtfully.  "Georges — 
please  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"The  matter  ?"  he  repeated,  and  as  *he  laughed  she 
shrank  from  the  subtle  change  that  came  over  his  face. 
"My  dear  Estella,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"The  matter  is  that  I  love  you.     Is  that  enough?" 

"Of  course  not.  You're  in  trouble.  I  can  see  it 
You  know  I  can  see  it." 

"I  am.  But  if  you  will  say  yes — that's  my  only 
trouble." 

"Is  it  money  trouble,  Georges?" 

*'I  need  you  more  than  all  the  money  in  the  world," 


176  JWISTED  TRAILS 

said  he.  "I  need  you  more  than  anything  in  the  world. 
I — love  you." 

"Ah,  no,  Georges,  you  don't  love  me,"  she  said  bit- 
terly. "No,  no !  You  only  want  to  marry  me." 

"That  usually  is  the  proof,  isn't  it?" 

"Usually,  yes.  In  our  case  it  wouldn't  prove  anything 
except  that  it  would  be  a  good  arrangement.  I  know 
something  about  how  things  are,  Georges.  I've  heard 
often  enough  that  it  would  be  good  business  for  the 
two  properties  to  be  united.  When  I  was  a  child — before 
Uncle  Armand  sent  me  away  to  school — I  was  fascinated 
by  you.  Now " 

"Now — your  Uncle  Armand  thinks  for  you." 

"Oh,  no.  Not  at  all.  But  now  I  see  things  more  clear- 
ly. If  I  believed  you  really  loved  me  I — might  come  to 
care  for  you  again.  But  I  don't  believe  you  do.  I  know 
you  say  it  only  because  it  would  be  good  business  for 
you  to  marry  me." 

Martel  laughed  softly. 

"Estella,"  he  murmured  softly,  "would  it  change  your 
feeling  for  me  if  you  knew  the  opposite  to  be  true?" 

"The  opposite?" 

"The  opposite;  exactly!  Do  not  think  I  say  this 
except  in  kindness;  do  not  let  it  hurt  your  pride,  but — 
you  have  nothing,  Estella,  nothing  but  my  love.  You 
would  have  had  to  know  this  soon.  Uncle  Armand 
would  have  been  forced  to  tell  you.  Your  plantation 
loses  money  every  year ;  and  it's  in  debt  so  deeply  that  it 
no  longer  belongs  to  you.  I  am  telling  the  truth,  Estella ; 
and  it  hurts  me  to  tell  it,  but  it's  better  to  know  it  now 


TWISTED  TRAILS  177 

and  have  it  over  with.  I  love  you.  I  can  make  a  go  of 
things  if  you  will  marry  me.  My  father  must  quit 
managing  here.  I  will  sell  the  timber  in  the  Black  Woods, 
and  we  will  be  out  of  debt." 

"We?"  repeated  Estella.  "Are  you  in  debt  too? 
Then  why  don't  you  sell  Black  Woods  and  get  out  of 
debt  before  you  come  and  ask  me  to  marry  you?  Did 
you  expect  me  to  be  so  eager  for  the  honor  that  I  would 
fall  on  your  neck  the  moment  you  spoke?" 

"What's  this?"  chuckled  Martel  softly.  "You're 
angry,  I  do  believe." 

"You  had  better  believe  it,"  said  the  girl. 

"Because  our  place,  too,  is  in  debt?" 

"No.  Because  you — because  it's  just  as  I  feared.  You 
don't  care  for  me ;  it's  just  an  arrangement  you're  after. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  the  affairs,  but  I  see  clearly 
that  it's  not  love,  not  my  welfare,  my  happiness  that's 
in  your  heart  when  you  speak ;  it's  your  own  affairs  that 
you're  considering.  My  eyes  have  been  opened.  I  see — 
I  know  that  love  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  feeling 
toward  me." 

"Your  eyes  have  been  opened,"  repeated  Martel  quiet- 
ly. "May  I  ask  who  has  opened  them?  Let  me  see?" 

He  took  the  light  and  held  it  close  to  her  face,  where 
he  could  see  every  feature  of  her  expression  clearly  de- 
lineated in  the  glow  of  the  flash.  She  was  smiling;  she 
was  almost  ready  for  laughter;  the  glint  of  aroused 
spirit  flashed  in  her  eyes.  M  artel's  face  suddenly  flamed 
with  passion. 

"You  beautiful  witch!"  he  said,  leaning  toward  her. 


178  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Poah  lil  Cajun  gal  very  proud  grand  M'sieu  Martel 
offer  to  make  marry  with  her,"  she  said  gayly,  and 
laughed  in  his  face. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  play  with  me?"  he  demanded. 

"But  poah  lil  Cajun  gal  say — stop !" 

He  checked  the  move  he  was  making — froze  at  the 
word — with  his  arm  outstretched  to  grasp  her. 

"Stop?"  he  purred  playfully.  "Do  you  think  you  can 
command  me  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  play  with  Georges 
Martel?" 

But  he  did  not  complete  the  gesture  that  would  have 
swept  her  into  his  arms.  Presently  his  hands  dropped  to 
his  side,  and  he  leaned  back.  Estella  had  not  flinched 
at  his  gesture  toward  her;  she  had  merely  spoken  one 
word.  Now  she  stood  up  looking  at  him  with  flashing 
eyes,  her  lips  parted,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  vehe- 
mently. 

"So  that  is  it?"  she  said.  "My  instinct  told  the  truth. 
You  had  better  go  away,  Georges  Martel." 

He  bowed  with  the  chivalrous  grace  that  was  innate 
in  him. 

"As  you  wish,  Estella,"  he  said  with  a  chuckle.  "But 
I  shall  return." 

"Better  not.    My  uncle  might  not  like  it." 

"Even  if  your  uncle  does  not  like  it." 

"I  won't  like  it." 

The  shrug  of  his  shoulders  expressed  regretful  de- 
termination better  than  words. 

"But  even  so,  even  if  you  do  not  like  it,  I  must  re- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  179 

turn.  Yes,  I  owe  that  sport  to  myself — you  beautiful 
spitfire !" 

The  light  went  out.  A  few  steps  crunching  on  the 
shell  path  and  he  was  gone. 

A  whippoorwill  broke  forth  down  by  the  bayou.  Then 
all  was  as  quiet  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


'T^HE  six  weeks  of  chill  rains  which  sufficed  for  win- 
ter  at  Lily  City  had  passed.  It  still  rained,  but 
there  was  a  softness  to  the  showers  now  which  told  of 
a  coming  change  in  the  seasons.  The  biting  winds 
had  passed  northward.  The  rain  no  longer  whipped 
over  the  lakes  and  bayous  in  raw,  chilling  gusts.  The 
daily  shower  had  become  a  gentle  drizzle,  and  there  was 
a  new  tone  to  the  gray  clouds  which  hinted  at  a  warm, 
blue  sky  above  them  preparing  to  smile  upon  the  sodden 
earth. 

Two  weeks  before  the  opening  of  the  Mardi  Gras 
Carnival  in  New  Orleans  a  mud-spattered  horse  and 
rider  came  hurtling  up  the  bayou  road  to  Lily  City  with 
the  news  that  the  Snake  had  held  up  the  store  at  Beau- 
sire.  Enraged  at  finding  only  a  few  hundred  dollars 
where  usually  there  was  a  couple  of  thousand  he  had 
deliberately  shot  the  storekeeper  and  his  clerk  through 
the  knees  and  vanished.  There  was  no  clue,  no  tracks, 
no  trace  of  how  he  had  come  or  gone.  It  was  the  Snake 
at  his  tricks  again. 

"Well,"  said  Octave  Landry  that  night,  "that  means 
we  needn't  worry  about  the  Snake  bothering  us  this 
month." 

"Why  not,  Octo?"  demanded  Terry  McGurk. 

180 


TWISTED  TRAILS  181 

It  was  the  night  before  pay-day  for  the  Hartland 
Company,  and  Landry,  Octave  and  Stephen  were  in  the 
office  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  pay-money  on  the  night 
train. 

"The  Snake  won't  be  showing  himself  again  for  some 
time  to  come  now,"  continued  Landry.  "He's  done  been 
safe  so  far  because  he  surprises  people.  He  shows  up 
when  nobody  is  thinking  of  him,  and  at  places  where  no- 
body would  look  for  him  to  come;  does  his  job,  and  drops 
out  of  sight.  Then  he  lays  low  until  folks  done  forgot 
about  him  before  he  comes  again.  Just  like  an  old  water 
moccasin,  slipping  back  into  the  mud.  I  was  talking 
with  that  man  from  Beausire,  and  he  says  he's  sure  one 
bad  hombre.  Looks  like  a  wild  man.  Scares  'em  stiff. 
Well,  I  reckon  he  wouldn't  scare  me  none."  The  youth 
suddenly  flashed  his  hand  to  his  hip  and  produced  a 
wicked-looking  revolver.  "How's  that?  I  reckon  I 
could  get  my  gun  working  about  as  fast  as  the  next  man. 
It's  just  practice,  gun  work  is." 

"Have  you  been  practicing,  Octave?"  asked  Stephen 
with  a  laugh. 

"Sure  have.  I  don't  allow  to  have  any  low-bred  swamp 
angel  show  up  and  take  any  company  money  away  from 
me.  Watch  me  now." 

He  went  through  the  motions  of  drawing  his  gun  while 
standing  and  sitting,  throwing  his  body  sidewise  as  he 
aimed  at  an  imaginary  foe. 

"If  he's  any  faster  than  that  he's  sure  sudden." 

"Aw,  come  out  of  it!"  exploded  Terry.  "You  don't 
know  these  stick-up  birds,  Octo;  they  don't  give  you  a 


182  TWISTED  TRAILS 

chance.  They  stick  a  gun  in  your  face  all  of  a  sudden 
and,  'Up  with  your  mitts!'  If  you  don't — blooey!" 

"I  reckon  you  must  have  been  held  up  a  powerful  lot 
to  talk  so  knowingly  about  it,"  retorted  Landry.  "I 
reckon  you  horsemen  are  all  pretty  bad  fellows  with  a 
gun." 

"Aw,  cheer  up,  Octo !"  chuckled  Terry.  "I  ain't  after 
your  goat.  Horseman,  that's  me.  And  believe  me,  if 
Nailer  keeps  coming  the  way  he  has  I'll  show  you  all 
Mardi  Gras  Day.  Only  two  weeks  more — then  put  your 
shirt  on  him  and  live  easy.  Have  you  heard  about 
Georges  Martel  ?  He's  kept  The  Hammer  dark,  too,  and 
he's  been  getting  as  high  as  twelve  to  one  on  him.  He's 
playing  him  with  every  cent  he  can  scrape  up.  He's  right, 
too;  there's  only  going  to  be  two  horses  in  that  race, 
The  Hammer  and  Nailer,  and  if  the  Nailer  keeps  im- 
proving there's  only  going  to  be  one." 

"What  if  he  don't?"  asked  Landry. 

"He  will;  he  will." 

"The  Hammer  will  win.  Georges  told  me  so  himself. 
And  the  Martels  will  make  a  fortune." 

"And  if  he  don't  they'll  go  broke,"  retorted  Terry. 
"Now,  Octo,  don't  get  me  sore " 

"Stop  it!"  said  Stephen.    "There's  the  train." 

Far  across  the  bayou  a  hoarse  whistle  disturbed  the 
silence  of  the  night.  Stephen  picked  up  the  pump-gun 
which  he  kept  handy  at  pay  time  and  led  the  way  to  the 
station. 

"She's  a  fat  one  this  month,  boys,"  laughed  the  express 
messenger  as  he  greeted  them.  "Watch  her  close." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  183 

The  moneybag, was  received  in  good  order,  receipted 
for,  and  the  march  back  to  the  office  begun,  Stephen  walk- 
ing in  the  rear  with  the  shotgun  held  hunter- fashion  in 
the  hollow  of  his  left  arm. 

"Man,  you  sure  do  make  good  snake  medicine!" 
laughed  Octave.  "But  he  won't  come.  He's  too  smart. 
Never  makes  a  mistake ;  never  gets  into  a  hot  hole.  I'm 
a  little  sorry,  myself — I  sure  believe  I  could  get  him." 

"That's  not  our  business,"  said  Stephen.  "Our  job  just 
now  is  to  get  the  money  locked  up  in  that  safe." 

"That's  right  too,"  agreed  the  bookkeeper.  "Well, 
here  we  are." 

He  switched  the  light  on  as  they  entered  the  office  and 
dropped  the  heavy  bag  before  the  safe  and  swung  the 
doors  open. 

"We'll  take  it  out  of  the  bag  and  check  up  before  we 
lock  it  up,"  said  he,  tossing  the  bag  into  the  safe  tem- 
porarily, to  have  it  out  of  the  way.  "Let's  pull  that 
table  over  here  in  front  of  the  safe  and  have  it  to  work 
on." 

Stephen  put  the  gun  away  and  stepped  across  the  room 
to  where  Terry  and  Octave  were  struggling  with  a  heavy 
table  in  the  corner. 

"I  believe  you'd  better  shut  the  door  and  pull  down 
the  curtains,  Octave,"  he  said. 

"Sure  will,"  agreed  Octave,  "just  as  soon's  we  get  the 
table  over.  Give  us  a  hand." 

Stephen  took  hold. 

In  the  same  instant  from  the  open  doorway  came  an 
animal-like  growl,  an  inarticulate  snarl  of  command  in 


184  TWISTED  TRAILS 

which  no  word  was  intelligible,  yet  which  whirled  the 
three  men  round  toward  whence  it  came,  with  their 
hands  instinctively  thrust  in  the  air. 

The  Snake  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  filled  it.  And 
Stephen  saw  that  not  even  the  Cajun  tradition  which  had 
been  created  about  the  creature  exaggerated  or  even  did 
justice  to  the  formidable  appearance  of  the  hunchbacked 
desperado.  Even  as  he  stood  there,  in  a  stooping  posi- 
tion more  akin  to  a  great  gorilla  risen  for  the  nonce 
upon  its  hind  legs,  bowed  forward  by  the  great  hump 
on  his  back,  the  Snake  was  taller  than  Steppy.  He  was 
so  broad  that  the  worn  skin  jacket  upon  his  shoulders 
touched  either  side  of  the  doorway.  His  arms  were  gro- 
tesquely thick,  as  were  his  legs,  thick  and  clumsy  even 
out  of  proportion  to  his  great  body.  His  apparel  was  a 
crude  combination  of  skins  and  canvas  cloth.  A  worn 
skin  cap  covered  his  head,  and  from  its  edges  hung  a 
heavy  mosquito  net — a  curtain  of  slitted  canvas,  but- 
toned fore  and  aft  to  the  skin  jacket,  which  hid  from  sight 
his  face,  neck  and  head,  and  which  almost  effaced  any 
suggestion  of  a  human  head  on  those  skin-clad  shoul- 
ders. 

In  his  right  hand  hung  an  automatic  pistol  of  largest 
caliber,  the  muzzle  of  which  seemed  fo  menace  intimately 
the  heart  of  each  man  in  the  room. 

Warren  took  in  these  details  in  the  instant  between  the 
growled  command  and  the  next  incident,  as  a  man,  in  a 
flash  of  lightning,  notices  the  tiniest  details  of  a  scene 
which  the  vivid  flash  reveals.  The  thought  which  swept 
through  his  mind  was :  "They  have  named  him  right." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  185 

The  very  fashion  m  which  the  Snake  held  his  pistol,  so 
securely  and  yet  without  effort  that  it  seemed  a  part  of 
him,  suggested  the  venomous  head  of  a  reptile  ready, 
even  eager,  to  strike.  Stephen  had  his  share  of  courage 
and  of  the  calm  temperament  which  faces  danger  with- 
out losing  self-possession,  but  he  made  no  move  to  lower 
his  hands.  There  was  no  room  left  for  the  scintilla  of  a 
doubt.  He  knew  that  at  the  slightest  excuse  the  Snake 
would  press  the  trigger,  and  by  the  manner  in  which  the 
pistol  was  held,  he  knew  it  would  not  miss.  He  felt  the 
impulse  to  convey  this  knowledge  to  Octave  and  Terry, 
to  warn  them  not  to  court  danger,  but  he  found  himself 
unable  to  do  so.  The  Snake  fascinated  and  held  him. 
He  was  more  than  a  masked  robber;  he  was  a  force,  a 
mystery,  which  attracted  even  as  it  repelled.  Steppy 
found  himself  staring  at  him  as  at  a  nightmare;  he  ran 
his  eyes  down  the  huge,  heavily  clad  body  to  the  pistol 
and  a  chill  ran  through  him.  Yet  the  Snake  had  not 
moved. 

"Be  careful,  Terry — Octave,"  Steppy  managed  to 
stammer.  "Do  just  as  he  says." 

The  pistol  covered  him  as  he  opened  his  lips,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  was  oppressed  by  the  feeling  that  he  was  about 
to  be  shot  down.  With  a  slight  move  of  the  wrist  the 
pistol  muzzle  picked  out  first  Octave,  then  Terry,  and  as 
if  it  were  a  magician's  wand,  motioned  them  to  move  over 
to  Steppy's  side.  Like  automatons  they  obeyed. 

"That's  right,"  said  Steppy. 

The  way  to  the  open  safe  now  was  clear.  The  three 
men  were  lined  up  against  the  side  wall,  out  of  reach 


186  TWISTED  TRAILS 

of  the  passage  to  the  strong  box.  The  Snake  began  to 
shuffle  sidewise  across  the  office  floor.  His  posture  did 
not  change  and  his  feet  did  not  leave  the  floor,  but  he 
moved  swiftly  toward  the  safe,  facing  and  menacing  his 
three  victims.  Steppy  heard  Octave  panting,  and  trem- 
bling with  anger. 

"Don't  move,  Octo,  don't  move !"  he  gasped.  Yet  he 
felt  that  the  Creole  would  move;  felt  the  slight  body  be- 
side him  vibrating  with  excitement. 

Within  reach  of  the  safe  the  Snake  stopped  and,  with- 
out turning  his  head  to  look  or  moving  his  eyes  from  the 
three  men,  reached  out  unerringly  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  moneybag. 

Something  in  the  outlaw's  posture  at  that  moment  at- 
tracted Octave  Landry.  He  started,  and  an  inarticulate 
expression  of  surprise  and  incredulity  escaped  his  lips. 
Leaning  forward  he  peered  intently  at  the  slits  behind 
which  gleamed  the  eyes  of  the  Snake,  and  at  what  he 
saw  there  his  lower  jaw  loosened  slowly  until  he  stood 
with  his  mouth  wide  open.  The  Snake  watched  him 
alertly,  and  for  a  moment  they  faced  one  another,  silent 
and  motionless,  and  then  whatever  it  was  that  Octave 
saw  it  seemed  to  repel  him.  He  drew  back  until  he 
touched  the  wall. 

"You !"  he  managed  to  articulate. 

The  Snake  fired  so  promptly  that  the  roar  of  his  pistol 
drowned  out  anything  further  that  Octave  might  have 
said  or  tried  to  say.  His  swiftness  with  the  trigger  was 
such  that  at  Octave's  single  word  he  seemed  merely  to 
release  a  pent-up  volley  of  noise  and  lead. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  187 

At  the  horrified,  incredulous  "Oh!"  which  the  first 
heavy  bullet  wrung  from  the  stricken  Octave's  lips,  rea- 
son and  self-control  fled  from  Steppy  and  he  ducked  low 
and  threw  himself  headlong  at  the  Snake.  Something 
with  the  force  of  a  trip  hammer  smote  him  on  the  left 
side.  It  stopped  his  leap,  flung  him  back  with  merciless, 
irresistible  power,  and  spun  him  round,  so  the  palms  of 
his  hands  slapped  loudly  against  the  wall  as  he  clutched 
instinctively  to  save  himself  from  falling. 

The  Snake  paused  an  instant  in  the  doorway  with  the 
moneybag  under  his  arm.  He  looked  at  Octave  Landry, 
crumpling  into  a  sitting  position  against  the  wall,  his 
mouth  open,  his  eyes  staring,  his  whole  expression  one 
of  complete  surprise  and  stupid  incredulity;  he  looked  at 
Stephen  Warren,  his 'hands  flat  on  the  wall,  struggling 
painfully  to  hold  his  sagging  body  upright;  he  looked  at 
Terry.  He  did  not  trouble  to  shoot  the  latter.  He  swung 
his  pistol  on  him,  laughed  bestially;  then  he  vanished, 
disappeared,  dropped  noiselessly  and  completely  out  of 
sight  of  the  men  in  the  soft  dark  night. 

Steppy  was  fighting  a  terrible  battle.  The  shock  from 
the  heavy  bullet  had  numbed  him.  He  had  not  entirely 
lost  consciousness  but  such  glimmer  of  intelligence  as 
remained  to  him  was  fogged  and  dim.  He  was  incapable 
of  realizing  that  he  had  been  shot,  yet  he  knew  that  he 
had  been  terribly  hurt  somehow.  Through  the  fog  of 
his  semiconsciousness  at  first  had  glimmered  the  thought : 
"I'm  killed."  Then:  "No,  I'm  not;  no,  I'm  not;  but  I'm 
dying." 

It  was  the  desire  of  his  stricken  body  to  sag,  to  droop 


188  fc     TWISTED  TRAILS 

wearily  to  rest  on  the  floor  that  brought  the  latter  thought. 
The  two  thoughts — that  he  had  been  killed,  that  he  had 
not  been  killed,  but  was  dying — raced  through  his  mind 
with  the  speed  of  madness.  Presently  they  clarified  them- 
selves; presently  one  thought  alone  held  sway  in  his 
tottering  reason. 

"If  I  fall  I'm  dead ;  if  I  can  hold  myself  up  I'm  alive." 

His  fingers  were  numbed  and  helpless,  but  the  palms 
of  his  hands  clung  to  the  wall  with  a  grip  as  if  clinging  to 
life  itself,  and  he  groaned :  "I  must  not  let  go,  I  must 
not  let  go!" 

A  voice  seemed  to  answer  him. 

Steppy  straightened  and  turned  round  slowly,  for  the 
voice  seemed  to  come  from  behind  him.  As  he  slid 
slowly  to  a  seat  beside  Octave  Landry  he  saw  that  Estella 
Reid  was  in  the  front  of  the  group  which,  rushing  to  the 
open  doorway,  had  drawn  back  aghast  at  what  was  to  be 
seen  within. 

The  crowd  parted.  Georges  Martel  came  through  it  on 
the  run  and  went  straight  to  Octave's  side. 

"Who  did  it?"  he  demanded.  With  his  eyes  running 
from  Octave  to  Stephen,  he  asked:  "They  fought?" 

"The  Snake  did  it !"  gasped  Terry. 

"The  Snake!    He's  been  here?" 

"Octo  recognized  him!  The  Snake  shot  him;  Mr. 
Warren  jumped  to  save  Octo,  and  he  shot  him  too." 

"My  poor  Octo !"  Georges'  strong  arm  raised  the  young 
Cajun  to  his  breast.  "Octo!  Octo!  My  cousin,  what 
has  been  done  to  you?  How  many  times  I  warned  you 


TWISTED  TRAILS  189 

of  the  Snake.  You  are  not  hurt  badly,  Octo?  Speak 
to  me — Georges." 

Octave  Landry's  slight  body  sagged  helplessly  against 
his  kinsman's  arm.  Form  his  whitish  green  face  his 
large  brown  eyes  looked  through  the  lusterless  film  which 
was  forming  upon  them.  He  looked  at  the  agonized 
faces  about  him  with  a  stupid  expression  of  amazement, 
as  if  wondering  what  all  the  fuss  could  be  about.  Georges' 
vitality  seemed  to  rouse  him  from  the  stupor  into  which 
he  was  sinking.  As  he  looked  up  at  his  cousin  a  new 
expression  moved  lightly  over  his  face.  For  a  space  he 
seemed  to  regain  the  interest  in  worldly  matters  which 
,had  been  slipping  from  him.  With  his  eyes  growing  wid- 
er, and  brighter  for  a  moment,  he  opened  his  mouth  as  if 
in  one  last  effort  to  speak,  but  ere  the  effort  had  begun  the 
interest  was  gone  from  him.  The  film  crept  over  his 
eyes,  an  enigmatical  smile  spread  itself  over  his  whitish 
lips,  a  smile  which  told  that  Octave  Landry  had  passed 
on  to  where  he  had  forever  lost  interest  in  the  mundane 
affairs  of  men. 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  entered  the  room,  and  instantly 
took  command. 

"Lay  him  down,"  he  said  gently  after  a  single  look  at 
Octave. 

"He's  gone?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Yes.    Lay  him  down  softly." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  had  turned  to  Steppy.  The  latter 
could  feel  thin,  deft  fingers  raising  the  heavy  lids  of  his 


190  TWISTED  TRAILS 

eyes,  felt  them  skillfully  feeling  his  pulse,  yet  he  was  too 
numbed  to  speak  or  stir,  too  weary  to  care  to  make  the 
effort.  He  heard  Terry  McGurk  whimpering  at  his  side, 
and  with  a  heavy,  painful  effort  he  slowly  turned  his  head 
toward  the  sound  and  opened  his  eyes.  Terry  was  on  his 
knees,  sobbing  with  bowed  head  and  did  not  see.  Pain- 
fully Steppy  made  an  effort  at  speech;  in  vain  his  lips 
moved  in  an  effort  to  assure  Terry.  His  helplessness 
filled  him  with  a  sickening  sense  of  disgust  at  his  condi- 
tion. He  didn't  care.  He  was  dying.  And  then  came 
the  clear,  throbbing  voice  which  again  lifted  him  out  of 
the  void  of  darkness,  Estella's  voice,  crying: 

"Terry!  Look,  Terry!  He  wants  to  tell  you  he's  all 
right!" 

"Yes."  Doctor  Thibodeaux's  voice  came  crisply  out 
of  the  muddle.  "It  is  remarkable." 

"He  lives?"  asked  Georges  Martel. 

"Yes — and  probably  will -continue  to  do  so,  since  the 
shock  did  not  kill  him.  It  is  up  under  the  arm-pit.  A 
heart  shot  that  went  wrong  by  a  trifle,  I  presume.  He 
must  lie  flat  when  we  carry  him.  If  there  was  an  old 
door " 

Georges  thrust  the  crowd  out  of  the  doorway,  and  with 
a  single  kick  knocked  loose  the  lower  hinge  of  the  office 
door.  A  jerk,  and  the  door  was  on  the  floor. 

"Mon  Dieu !"  breathed  the  doctor,  looking  at  him  quiz- 
zically. 

"Well,  put  it  beside  him — so.  Now  let  us  carry 
him " 

"Let  us  take  him  to  my  father's  house,"  said  Georges. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  191 

"It  is  the  least  we  can  do,  since  he  tried  to  save  my  cousin, 
Octo!" 

"It  does  you  credit,  that,  Georges,"  said  Doctor  Thibo- 
deaux  politely,  "but  I  must  have  him  under  my  eye  where 
I  can  watch  his  pulse  every  minute  for  many  hours  to 
come.  So,  if  you  please,  we  will  carry  him  to  my  home." 


CHAPTER  XXH 

'T^ERRY  McGURK  had  lived:  intensely  anu  variously 
•*•  during  the  twenty-one  years  of  his  life,  and  scenes 
of  violence  had  not  been  unknown  in  his  experiences,  but 
the  sudden  appearance  of  the  Snake,  the  calamity  follow- 
ing it,  had  held  him  in  a  daze.  From  the  moment  that 
the  Snake  had  laid  his  spell  upon  the  office  by  appearing 
so  noiselessly  in  the  doorway  Terry's  mind  had  ceased  to 
function  with  its  usual  nimbleness.  The  effect  of  the  out- 
law upon  him  had  been  that  of  the  serpent  upon  its  vic- 
tim, and  Terry  had  gone  through  the  trying  experience 
dazed  and  helpless  and-  empty  headed.  It  had  been  more 
than  fear  or  terror ;  it  had  been  a  numbness  from  which 
he  did  not  fully  recover  until  Warren  had  been  borne 
into  Doctor  Thibodeaux's  house  and  until  half  an  hour 
afterward  when  the  doctor  had  appeared  triumphantly 
upon  the  gallery. 

"Well,  doc?"  whispered  Terry  hoarsely.  "How  about 
it?" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  bore  between  the  delicate  tips  of 
his  thumb  and  forefinger  an  ugly  gray  bullet,  which  he 
held  up  to  a  light  and  regarded  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
noisseur. 

"A  tremendously  effective  missile,"  he  said  apprecia- 
tively. "Two  hundred  grains  in  weight  at  least;  forty- 

192 


TWISTED  TRAILS  193 

five  caliber.  Heavy  enough  to  carry  the  weight  of  great 
shock  and  with  a  striking  surface  broad  enough  to  shock 
rather  than  penetrate.  Archaic  in  form,  it  is  true,  in  a 
day  when  the  efforts  are  toward  achieving  the  highest  ve- 
locity and  lowest  trajectory  possible  with  the  consequent 
reduction  of  caliber  and  the  adoption  of  the  sharp-pointed 
bullet;  but  nevertheless  an  extremely  efficient  projectile 
for  close  range.  Such  a  bullet  precludes  the  necessity  of 
expert  marksmanship  or  of  careful  aiming  at  a  vital 
part.  Its  caliber  and  weight  give  it  the  effect  of  a  heavy 
hammer.  It  does  not  penetrate,  flying  through  with  little 
damage,  like  the  small  steel- jacketed  affairs;  it  knocks 
down  or  numbs — paralyzes.  Lodge  one  in  your  oppo- 
nent's person,  anywhere  one  might  say,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment he  is  helpless;  he  is  numb  from  the  shock,  even 
though  the  subsequent  consequences  are  trifling.  In 
close  combat,  where  speed " 

"Will  he  make  the  grade,  doc?"  demanded  Terry. 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  paused  in  full  flight  and  frowned 
over  his  glasses. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  murmured  absently.  "You  are  there, 
Terry.  You  know  nothing  about  calibers,  trajectories, 
velocity,  striking  energy,  I  presume?" 

"Go  on,  gimme  the  dope !" 

"Then  behold  this,"  the  doctor  held  up  the  bullet  again. 
"It  is  highly  interesting.  Mr.  Warren  is  a  very  sick 
man.  Sick,  you  will  observe,  I  say.  The  wound  is  not 
serious.  He  is  sick  from  the  shock,  very  sick." 

"Will  he  make " 

"He  will.    Go  away  now.    Remain  away.    One  thing 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

shocked  nerves  require  above  all — quiet.    I  shall  see  that 
he  gets  it.    Go  away." 

The  fog  lifted  from  Terry's  mind  as  he  made  his  way 
between  the  great  rosebushes  out  to  the  bayou  road.  Re- 
leased from  his  daze  his  mind  began  to  race  as  if  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  and  the  scene  in  the  office,  the  move- 
ments of  each  individual,  the  personality  of  the  Snake, 
all  reconstructed  themselves  before  his  eyes,  and  he  saw 
them  much  more  clearly  than  during  the  period  of  their 
actual  occurrence.  The  Snake  stood  out  with  a  vivid- 
ness that  almost  frightened  him.  As  he  had  dominated 
in  the  office,  so  now  he  dominated  Terry's  memory  of  the 
affair.  Every  visible  feature  of  the  outlaw,  his  worn 
swamp  dweller's  apparel,  his  posture,  his  shuffling  move- 
ment, his  pistol,  and  the  swiftness  of  his  movement  when 
he  vanished  bearing  the  moneybag,  all  lived  again  before 
Terry's  eyes.  He  heard  again  distinctly  the  wild-animal 
snarl  of  command  that  had  announced  the  Snake's  ap- 
pearance in  the  doorway,  as  well  as  the  laugh  which  sig- 
naled his  swift  disappearance  into  the  dark  night. 

"Like  something  that  had  broke  out  of  the  Zoo," 
thought  Terry,  with  a  little  shudder.  "And  still,"  his 
puzzled  thought  ran  on,  "come  to  think  of  it,  there  was 
something  about  him " 

He  was  walking  down  the  dark  road  and  he  paused 
abruptly.  During  the  few  seconds  which  it  had  required 
the  Snake  to  effect  the  robbery  Terry  had  not  seen  any- 
thing about  him  to  remind  him  of  any  one  or  anything. 
Now  as  the  scene  lived  again  for  him  he  was  startled 


TWISTED  TRAILS  195 

to  find  that  the  Snake  did  not  seem  so  weird  or  strange 
to  him.  True,  the  outlaw  was  so  heavily  and  grotesquely 
clad  and  masked  that  it  was  impossible  to  see  what  the 
man  actually  looked  like,  but  Terry  felt  he  had  seen  him 
before. 

"Mebbe  it's  because  I  saw  Octo  knew  him." 

But  it  was  not  that.  The  idea  that  there  was  some- 
thing reminiscent  about  the  Snake  would  not  be  dis- 
missed. 

"I  wish  I'd  seen  his  face,"  thought  Terry,  "so  I'd  know 
if  he  was  a  dinge." 

He  thought  of  the  giant  Deacon  Hogfoot  down  at 
Haute  Isle  Camp,  for  Hogfoot  was  the  one  man  he  knew 
of  whose  proportions  compared  with  those  of  the  Snake 
but  the  deacon  was  a  straight,  upstanding  man  with  no 
suggestion  of  a  hump  on  his  back.  Hogfoot  was  a  negro, 
whereas,  in  spite  of  his  hump,  and  his  ragged  clothes,  the 
Snake  carried  himself  with  the  air  of  a  man  used  to  com- 
mand. 

"Why  didn't  I  think  of  that  before?"  wondered  Terry, 
and  hurried  back  to  the  office  where  Georges  and  Pete 
Martel,  the  sheriff,  were  in  charge. 

"Say,  Mr.  Martel,"  he  said,  "this  guy — the  Snake— 
was  used  to  having  things  his  own  "way.  Get  me  ?  He 
was  used  to  bossing." 

Georges  Martel  looked  the  boy  up  and  down  without 
replying. 

"Terry,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  you'd  know  the  Snake 
if  you  saw  him  again?" 


196  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Sure  thing;  think  I'm  blind?  Hey?  What  you  look- 
ing at  me  that  way  for?" 

"You're  sure  you'd  know  him  again?"  said  Martel. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure." 

"Too  bad !"  said  Martel  with  a  laugh.  "You  had  better 
look  out  for  the  Snake,  Terry;  he  always  shoots  people 
who  might  know  him  again." 

"Then  why  didn't  he  hand  it  to  me?"  demanded  Terry. 

"Who  knows?  He  may  come  back  and  do  it  some- 
time, unless  we  catch  him  first." 

"You're  going  after  him,  eh?  'Bout  time  something 
startec  stirring.  When  are  you  going  to  start?" 

"Not  until  daylight,"  laughed  Georges. 

"Which  beat  you  going  to  travel?" 

"The  beat  which  the  Snake  probably  took — into  the 
swamp.  Do  you  want  to  come  along,  Terry?" 

"Going  by  water,  eh?  Well,  I  ain't  so  keen  for  that 
swamp  stuff  myself,  Mr.  Martel.  If  it  was  riding  I  could 
do  some  good,  mebbe." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Martel,  "but  what  on,  Terry?" 

"What  on?  What  d'you  s'pose?  On  Nailer,  of 
course !" 

"Oh,"  said  Georges,  smiling,  "Nailer." 

"Hey!  Come  out  o'  that,  come  out  o'  that!"  cried 
(Terry,  instantly  roused  by  the  tantalizing  smile.  "He's 
a  horse  now,  Nailer  is.  He  was  a  false  alarm  on  Opening 
Day,  but  he's  coming  round  now  and  he'll  be  all  right  for 
the  Mardi  Gras  Handicap." 

"Really?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  197 

"Yes,  he  will ;  yes,  he  will !  And  if  the  Snake  was  up 
on  your  horse,  The  Hammer,  I'd  put  Nailer  on  the  road 
and  catch  him  now,  even  with  the  start  he's  got.  You 
wait  till  they  hook  up  at  Mardi  Gras !" 

Terry  turned  away,  realizing  it  was  no  time  to  allow 
himself  to  be  drawn  into  a  racing  argument. 


CHAPTER  xxrn 

IGHT  now,"  mused  Terry  to  himself,  "while  we're 
standing  here  chewing  the  rag  the  Snake  might  be 
making  his  get-away  along  the  road." 

Terry's  natural  pugnaciousness,  which  had  been  held  in 
abeyance,  flared  suddenly  into  life  with  a  demand  for  in- 
stant action. 

"They're  sleeping  on  the  job,"  he  muttered.  "That 
ain't  the  way  to  do  it ;  they  ought  to  shut  off  every  chance 
for  a  get-away,  the  way  the  cops  watch  the  stations  and 
ferries  in  New  York.  Probably  he  did  beat  it  into  the 
swamp  by  water.  There's  a  chance  he  might  be  seen, 
though,  by  some  one.  If  the  men  down  at  the  camp 
knew — say,  I'll  blow  down  and  wise  up  Bomb  Carkey. 
He's  onto  things  round  here  and  he's  a  white  man.  He 
might  grab  the  Snake  by  his  lonesome." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  carefully  saddling  Nailer, 
conversing  with  him  intimately  as  was  his  wont. 

"So,  steady  there,  you  old  baby  Nailer!  I  know  you 
ain't  used  to  training  at  night,  but  there's  a  good  moon 
and  the  road's  good,  and  we're  just  going  for  a  little 
exercise  gallop.  Whoa,  boy!  Say,  old  Nailer,  you're 
getting  into  condition.  We're  worked  the  fat  off  your 
bay  window,  old  baby;  got  to  take  in  the  girth  another 
hole.  There  you  are.  Now  take  it  easy,  Nailer,  take  it 

198 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

easy  till  you  get  warmed  up.  Somebody  handed  it  to  our 
big  pal,  Nailer,  and  we're  going  down  and  wise  Bomb 
Carkey  up  about  it.  Bomb's  a  white  man.  Easy,  Nailer, 
easy !" 

The  thoroughbred  danced  with  the  excitement  of  being 
taken  out  at  this  unusual  hour,  and  when  he  felt  the 
straight,  soft  road,  beneath  his  prancing  feet  he  leaned 
against  the  tautly  held  bit  with  eagerness. 

"What?"  whispered  Teddy  incredulously.  "What I 
You  ain't  jumping  at  it,  are  you,  Nailer?  Aw,  quit  try- 
ing to  kid  me.  You  ain't  in  shape  yet  to  be  crazy  to 
run." 

Nailer  again  lunged  at  the  bit. 

"Well,  what  d'you  know  about  that?"  demanded  Terry. 
He  had  forgotten  the  errand  he  was  on  for  the  time 
being.  In  fact,  as  soon  as  he  felt  Nailer's  muscles  moving 
beneath  his  knees  he  had  forgotten  everything  but  the 
noble  animal  he  bestrode.  "Oh,  you  baby!"  he  whis- 
pered. He  held  his  mount  in  until  they  reached  a  stretch 
of  the  road  which  he  knew  would  be  safe  even  in  the  dark- 
est night.  He  spoke  no  word,  but  he  gradually  relaxed 
his  short  grip  on  the  reins,  and  Nailer,  fighting  every 
second  for  his  head,  gradually  pulled  the  bit  forward  until 
his  head  was  outstretched  in  proper  running  position, 
and  then,  as  spontaneously  as  a  river  rushes  through  an 
opened  dam,  as  naturally  as  a  bird  bursts  into  morning 
song,  Nailer  let  himself  out.  He  ran  for  the  joy  of 
running.  His  gait  was  not  the  tense,  fighting  stride  of 
the  thoroughbred  race  warrior  fighting  for  the  lead  on  a 
track.  It  was  a  romp.  The  speed  stored  up  in  Nailer's 


200  TWISTED  TRAILS 

heart  and  body  insisted  on  showing  itself.  He  ran  with- 
out an  effort,  and  Terry,  sensing  the  strength  of  the  stride 
beneath  him,  sucked  in  his  breath  in  grim  appreciation, 
'for  the  whistle  of  the  wind  in  his  ears  told  him  the  tale 
of  the  speed  of  Nailer's  flight. 

"Half  a  mile,"  he  estimated.    "Now  let's  see." 

But  Nailer  did  not  falter. 

"Three-quarters,"  guessed  Terry. 

Nailer  was  putting  the  ground  behind  him  with  no 
slackening  of  his  swiftly  easy  stride. 

"A  mile!  Whoa!  Slow  down.  Cut  it  out,  Nailer, 
d'you  hear?  That'll  be  all  at  that  gait.  Shut  down,  shut 
'down!" 

For  the  space  of  several  seconds  rider  and  steed  fought 
it  out  in  the  moonlight,  and  then  reluctantly  Nailer  obeyed 
the  pull  on  the  bit.  Terry  bent  far  over,  feeling  and  lis- 
tening to  Nailer's  breathing,  and  the  thumping  of  his 
heart. 

"Yep,  your  wind's  still  a  trifle  bad,  old  baby,"  he  said, 
"but  you're  there  with  the  steam  to  carry  you  all  the  way 
round,  and  you'll  be  right  in  another  week." 

The  camp  on  Haute  Isle  lay  silent  in  the  moonlight 
when  they  arrived  and,  eager  to  chatter  the  great  news 
to  Carkey,  Terry  steered  Nailerjcarefully  across  the«clear- 
ing  and  slipped  to  the  ground  before  the  door  of  the  fore- 
man's bunk  shanty. 

"Hey,  Bomb!"  he  called  as  he  knocked.    "Wake  up!" 

There  was  no  response. 

"Oh,  Bomb !"  he  shouted  more  loudly,  rattling  the  door. 
"Come  out  of  it!" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  201! 

Carkey  must  be  an  awfully  sound  sleeper,  thought 
Terry. 

"Hi  I  Hi !"  He  kicked  till  the  shanty  rattled.  "Wake 
up  in  there !" 

From  the  shanty  next  to  Carkey's  came  a  groan  and 
the  muttered  curse  of  a  heavy  sleeper  awakening. 

"Huh?  Who  the  devil's  making  all  the  racket? 
What  d'you  want?" 

"Didn't  mean  to  roust  you  up,  McGill.  Trying  to  wake 
Carkey." 

McGill,  the  engineer  of  the  towboat,  stumbled  sleepily 
from  his  bunk  and  flung  open  the  door. 

"H'lo,  Terry,"  he  mumbled.  "Y'gotta  lotta  nerve. 
Whassa  matter,  waking  people  up  this  time  o'  night  ?" 

"Want  to  see  Bomb." 

"Bomb?"  The  engineer  stared  stupidly.  "Where'd 
you  come  from?  Bomb's  up  to  Lily  City.  Went  up  to 
the  office  on  business.  I  just  happened  to  meet  him  when 
he  was  slipping  away  on  the  quiet.  Won't  be  back  till 
to-morrow  noon.  Go  on,  now;  go  'way'n  lemme  sleep." 

Terry  stood  staring  blankly  at  the  bunk-shack  door 
which  the  sleepy  engineer  had  slammed  in  his  face.  His 
whirling  mind  was  repeating  automatically  the  thought: 
"You're  crazy;  Bomb  wasn't  there,"  but  some  deeper 
sense  ^prompted  him  to  suppress  the  impulse  to  blurt  the 
words  to  McGill's  sleepy  ears. 

Bomb  had  started  for  the  office  at  Lily  City  in  the 
afternoon.  McGill  had  accidentally  met  him  when  he  was 
slipping  away  on  the  quiet !  And  he  hadn't  shown  up  at 
the  office!  Or 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

Terry  suddenly  became  conscious  of  Nailer's  soft  nose 
muzzling  his  shoulder  apprehensively  and  realized  that 
he  was  trembling. 

"All  right,  Nailer,"  he  whispered  reassuringly.  The 
horse  quieted. 

"Thought  I  was  scared  at  something,  eh,  you  big 
baby?"  continued  Terry,  throwing  his  arm  round  the  bay's 
head.  "Nix.  Nix!  What  is  there  for  me  to  get  scared 
at,  eh?" 

Nailer  submitted  to  the  rude  caress  for  some  seconds. 
Then  he  suddenly  shook  his  head  loose,  stared  at  Terry 
and  gave  a  snort. 

"Can't  fool  you,  eh?"  said  Terry.  "Well,  I  admit  it, 
Nailer,  something  has  got  my  goat  and  got  it  hard.  I 
feel  like  I'd  been  swinging  round  the  first  turn  and  found 
a  stone  wall  clear  across  the  track.  What  do  you  know 
about  it,  Nailer;  what  do  you  know  about  it?  Bomb 
started  for  Lily  City  on  the  quiet.  He  didn't  reach  the 
wire,  didn't  even  show  on  the  home-stretch.  But  some- 
body else  did,  Nailer,  somebody  else  did,"  he  continued 
in  an  awed  whisper.  "Wouldn't  it  give  you  the  willies, 
Nailer;  wouldn't  it,  on  the  square?" 

Nailer  whinnied  and  stamped  restlessly. 

"All  right;  all  right,  old  sport;  we'll  get  out  of  here. 
Come  on!  Cut  out  that  nervous  stuff.  It  ain't  any  of 
your  business,  is  it?  You  don't  have  to  worry  about  it. 
All  you  got  to  do  is  to  get  in  shape  to  run  a  mile  and  a 
furlong  the  same  way  you  ran  that  first  half  mile  on 
Opening  Day.  Come  on  now ;  we'll  be  beating  k  back  to 


TWISTED  TRAILS  203 

the  stable.  This  ain't  no  time  of  night  for  a  race  horse 
to  be  ramming1  round  in  a  swamp." 

He  led  the  way  carefully  across  the  camp  clearing  and 
onto  the  trail  along  the  high  ground  to  the  north.  There 
he  prepared  to  mount,  but  as  he  looked  back  at  Carkey's 
bunk  shack  in  the  moonlight,  he  halted  with  a  foot  in  the 
stirrup. 

"What's  a  guy  going  to  do?"  he  pondered.  He  real- 
ized that  he  had  ridden  squarely  into  a  vista  of  potential 
importance,  and  he  was  as  loath  to  leave  the  camp  as  he 
was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  information 
that  had  been  thrust  upon  him. 

"What  had  a  guy  ought  to  do?  Terry,  get  your  think 
tank  to  working.  The  Big  Fellow  would  know  the  what 
of  it  if  he  was  here.  Get  busy;  try  to  dope  out  what  he 
would  do." 

He  failed  thoroughly  in  an  effort  to  decide  what  Step- 
py's  action  would  have  been  in  the  situation. 

"Fat  chance  you  got !  Terry,  you're  bone — all  bone — 
from  the  neck  up.'r 

He  looked  toward  the  east  and  saw  that  the  moonlight 
there  blended  with  a  gray  streak  of  light  rising  from  the 
eastern  horizon  to  herald  the  approach  of  a  new  day. 

"Well,"  he  decided,  "I  can  breeze  back  and  slip  the  news 
to  the  Big  Fellow  anyway." 

He  laid  a  hand  on  Nailer's  withers  to  swing  himself  up 
and  to  his  surprise  found  that  the  horse  was  standing  as 
rigid  as  if  his  warm  flesh  had  been  turned  to  stone,  his 
head  held  h«igh  a»nd  pointed  across  the  camp  clearing. 
Terry  felt  the  great  lungs  swell  out  the  chest  barrel  as 


204.  TWISTED  TRAILS 

the  animal  drew  in  the  scent  that  had  disturbed  him,  and 
he  leaped  like  a  cat,  throwing  his  hands  over  the  beast's 
nostrils  and  throttling  the  blast  which  Nailer  was  pre- 
paring to  blow. 

Hugging  the  horse's  head  with  both  arms  to  his  chest 
with  a  tenseness  which  'Nailer  understood  and  obeyed, 
Terry  stared  from  the  darkness  of  the  cane-hidden  trail 
across  the  clearing  to  the  dark  woods  on  the  farther  side. 
A  dim,  bulky  figure  had  slipped  out  of  the  woods  into  the 
clearing.  In  the  uncertain  light  of  the  moon  and  shadows 
the  figure  was  vague  and  dim.  It  stopped  in  the  shelter 
of  the  somber  woods  for  a  moment,  and  Terry  thought 
it  only  one  of  the  wild  swamp  cattle  emboldened  by  night 
to  stray  within  sight  of  buildings.  Then  it  moved  out  of 
the  darkness.  Terry  saw  it  was  a  man.  .  He  moved  across 
the  clearing  in  a  straight  line. 

It  was  Carkey. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  canebrake  Terry  clung  to  Nail- 
er's head  with  rigid  arms,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe. 
.Carkey  was  coming  straight  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
trail,  walking  swiftly  and  looking  about  the  camp  clearing 
as  he  came  on.  In  the  dim  light  his  big  form  was  crude 
and  gigantic. 

Terry  began  to  tremble,  and  Nailer  trembled  with  him. 

"If  he  finds  me  hiding  here,"  ran  Terry's  affrighted 
thoughts,  "if  he  finds  me  hiding  here " 

The  time  to  flee  was  right  now.  Terry  knew  it.  A 
leap  on  Nailer's  back,  a  kick  in  the  ribs,  and,  lying  low  to 
avoid  the  branches,  he  would  be  out  of  sight,  out  of  hear- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  205 

ing,  out  of  danger  before  Carkey  had  recovered  from  his 
surprise.  And  if  Carkey  found  him  spying  there 

Terry  let  go  Nailer's  head  and  slipped  back  to  the  sad^ 
dle.  He  did  not  mount.  He  dearly  desired  to  do  so, 
but  an  idea  had  flitted  through  his  mind,  riveting  him  to 
the  spot : 

What  was  Carkey  wearing? 

He  knew  it  was  Carkey  by  the  bearlike  build  and  swag- 
gering walk.  The  foreman's  features  were  invisible,  and 
from  that  distance  it  was  impossible  to  determine  his  ap- 
parel. Twenty  feet  from  the  mouth  of  the  trail  a  tall 
pine  stump  stood  clearly  revealed  in  the  clearing. 

"When  he  gets  to  that  I  can  pipe  his  togs,"  thought 
Terry,  and  he  paused,  ready  and  eager  to  leap  and  flee 
away  if  Bomb  Carkey 's  clothing  proved  what  he  feared. 
The  thumping  of  his  heart  was  shaking  his  frail  body, 
and  his  breath  was  coming  noiselessly  between  his  clenched 
teeth. 

Carkey  came  on.  He  was  halfway  across  the  clearing 
now.  His  course  carried  him  straight  toward  the  stump 
in  the  patch  of  light. 

Terry  gathered  the  reins,  put  his  hands  on  Nailer's 
back,  and  crouched  for  the  spring  into  the  saddle.  A 
few  steps  more,  a  little  nearer  that  stump 

Carkey  paused  abruptly.  He  was  near  the  center  of  the 
clearing  and  still  in  the  gloom.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
so;  by  his  movements  Terry  saw  that  he  was  making  a 
careful  survey  of  every  building  in  the  camp.  Then,  like 
a  bear  that  has  looked  round  for  enemies  and  found  itself 
safe,  Carkey  changed  his  course  for  his  bunk  shack,  un- 


206  TWISTED  TRAILS 

locked  the  door,  entered  and  closed  the  door  noiselessly 
behind  him. 

Terry  breathed  in  relief.  And  then  the  shock  of  disap- 
pointment smote  him.  He  had  not  seen  how  Carkey  was 
dressed  after  all. 

"Well,"  thought  he,  "well— I  donno." 

In  truth  he  felt  relieved,  but  his  red-haired  stubborn- 
ness kept  him  waiting  long  after  he  was  inclined  to  go. 
He  waited  until  the  moonlight  was  paling  overhead  and 
the  daylight  in  the  east  was  creeping  upward  into  mist- 
filled  space,  but  Carkey  had  gone  to  bed  and  did  not  re- 
appear. The  cooks  would  soon  be  rolling  out  of  their 
bunk  shanty.  Terry  mounted  slowly  and  rode  away. 

The  reaction  from  the  tension  of  the  last  few  minutes 
had  left  him  limp  and  exhausted  of  body  and  mind.  His 
seat  in  the  saddle  was  a  slump ;  the  grip  .of  his  knees  loose 
and  uncertain;  he  let  the  reins  hang  carelessly  through 
his  fingers.  Nailer  began  to  dance  angrily  and  Terry 
came  to  for  a  moment. 

"They  been  coming  too  fast  for  me,  Nailer,  old  boy," 
he  confessed.  "Run  your  own  race;  I'm  all  in." 

The  horse  lunged  on  the  bit,  jumped  sidewise  and 
otherwise  made  his  bid  for  the  comforting  feel  of  gripping 
knees  and  a  firm  hand  on  the  reins,  but  it  was  no  avail. 
Terry  sat  slumped  in  the  saddle  and,  disgusted  at  his 
rider's  lack  of  control,  the  horse  decided  to  go  home 
and  he  went  at  a  long  pounding  lope  that  soon  had  him 
breathing  hard. 

"Cut  it  out!"  snapped  Terry  presently  rousing  himself. 

He  looked  round.    Daylight  had  come  and  he  saw  they 


TWISTED  TRAILS  207 

were  approaching  the  outskirts  of  Lily  City.  In  desper- 
ation he  pulled  down  to  a  walk,  delaying  his  arrival  until 
a  possible  decision  presented  itself  of  the  problem  which 
was  troubling  him. 

What  should  he  do?  Should  he  tell  what  he  had  been 
told,  and  what  he  had  seen  of  Carkey  ?  Or  should  he  keep 
it  to  himself  and  see  what  developed? 

He  rode  slowly,  pondering  the  problem,  and  by  the  time 
he  was  approaching  Doctor  Thibodeaux's  house  he  had 
decided  that  he  would  wait  until  he  was  allowed  to  see 
Warren  absolutely  alone,  and  tell  him  the  whole  story 
and  shift  the  responsibility  of  keeping  it  a  secret  or  not 
to  the  Big  Fellow's  broad  shoulders.  Having  come  to 
this  decision  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  gathered  himself 
into  proper  riding  position,  tightened  the  reins — and  sud- 
denly let  them  drop  in  amazement.  Two  men  were  stand- 
ing in  the  road  before  the  doctor's  house,  Pete  Martel, 
the  sheriff,  and  his  deputy,  Lejeune.  The  sheriff  stepped 
forward  and  Nailer  stopped. 

"You  changed  your  mind,  I  see,"  said  Martel. 

"What?" 

The  deputy  moved  casually  down  the  road  until  he  was 
in  Terry's  rear. 

"So  you  decided  to  come  back  and  give  yourself  up," 
continued  the  sheriff.  "A  wise  move.  You  would  not 
have  got  far." 

"What  d'you  mean?"  Terry  managed  to  gasp  at  last. 
"What  you  handing  me?" 

"Get  off  the  horse." 

"Get  off?    Off  my— say!"    Terry's  eyes  shot  behind 


208  TWISTED  TRAILS 

him  as  he  tightened  the  reins.  The  deputy  had  his  hand 
on  the  hammers  of  h;o  shotgun.  The  sheriff  had  drawn 
Kis  revolver  and  Terry  found  himself  between  two  armed 
men  whose  expression  indicated  that  they  meant  business. 

"Say!    What  is  this?"  he  demanded. 

"Don't  try  to  run.  We  will  shoot  the  horse.  Get 
down." 

Terry  dismounted  quickly,  eager  not  to  do  anything 
that  might  bring  possible  danger  for  Nailer. 

"Don't  shoot  the  horse!"  he  stammered.  "Per  the  love 
o'  Mike,  don't  do  that.  What  do  youse  want  of  me,  eh? 
What's  the  game?" 

The  sheriff  laughed  shortly,  the  deputy  following  suit. 

"You  need  try  no  Yankee  bluff  here,"  said  the  former. 
"It  won't  work.  You  try  to  get  away,  find  the  way  too 
hard,  come  back  to  give  yourself  up,  and  then  ask  what 
is  up  when  you  are  arrested?" 

"Arrested?"  cried  Terry.    "Pinched?    Me?" 

"Stop  that!"  snapped  the  sheriff.  "Stop  the  bluffing. 
I  don't  like  it." 

"Pinched?    For  what?" 

"He  does  it  well,  don't  he  ?"  drawled  Lejeune.  "Guess 
that's  why  he  come  back,  Pete;  thought  he  could  bluff  it 
out." 

The  sheriff  put  his  left  hand  to  his  coat  pocket  and  came 
close  to  Terry. 

"Did  you  ever  see  this  before?"  he  barked,  and  held 
an  automatic  pistol  before  the  boy's  eyes.  "Ever  see 
anything  like  it  before?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

Terry  stared  at  the  weapon.    It  was  old  and  much  the 
worse  for  exposure  and  lack  of  care. 

"Why,"  he  cried,  "why,  it  looks  like  the  one  -  " 
"Did  you  see  it  last  night?    Did  you  see  it  at  the  shoot- 


ng 


"Like  the  one  the  Snake  had!"  gasped  Terry. 

"The  Snake  !"  The  sheriff  and  deputy  laughed  scorn- 
fully. 

"You  admit  you've  seen  this  gun  before,  then?" 

"It  looks  like  —  lemme  take  it." 

"Huh!  Not  after  last  night.  I  reckon  you  can  use  it 
too  well." 

Terry  drew  back,  leaning  against  Nailer's  shoulder,  his 
mouth  and  eyes  open  to  fullest  capacity. 

"Me?    You  mean  you  think  -  " 

"Stop  that  bluff.  No  more  of  it."  The  sheriff  was 
curt  and  businesslike.  "Three  men  were  in  the  office  at 
the  time  people  came  running  in  after  the  shooting.  Two 
of  them  were  wounded  badly;  one  was  untouched.  The 
unwounded  one  talks  about  the  Snake.  No  one  saw  the 
Snake.  No  one  saw  any  one  come  out  of  the  door,  though 
it  was  well  lighted,  and  people  looked  toward  the  office 
at  the  sound  of  the  shots.  They  hunted  everywhere,  at 
once.  They  find  nothing,  no  trace  of  any  one.  This 
morning  when  daylight  comes  we  searched  again.  We 
don't  find  a  thing;  not  a  track,  not  a  footprint,  nothing. 
All  we  found  was  —  this."  He  thrust  the  pistol  forth 
again.  "It  was  the  gun  that  fired  the  shots.  It  had  been 
thrown  behind  the  office  building.  Neither  of  the  two 
wounded  men  could  have  gone  out  and  thrown  it  there 


210  TWISTED  TRAILS 

and  come  back  again.  They  were  hit  too  hard.  The  one 
who  put  it  there  must  be  the  man  who  was  unhurt,  the 
only  one  able  to  do  it.  That  is — you!" 

"Say,  bo,"  said  Terry  after  he  had  recovered  from  the 
shock,  "lemme  get  this  straight.  Are  you  making  a 
charge  that  it  was  me  who  bumped  off  Octo  and  blew  a 
hole  in  the  Big  Fellow?  Why,  you're  crazy,  bo,  you're 
bugs.  Me  taking  a  crack  at  the  Big  Fellow!  Why,  he's 
me  pal,  bo,  me  pal !" 

"Ah,  ha!    You  admit  that,  then?" 

"Admit  what?  That  we're  pals?  Why,  soit'nly! 
Why  wouldn't  I?  Aw" — Terry  broke  down  in  despera- 
tion— "you're  crazy !" 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  sheriff.  "And  then  perhaps  we 
are  not  quite  so  crazy  as  you  Yankees  think  we  are." 

"Why,  the  Big  Fellow  saw  the  Snake.    Ask  him." 

"Yes,  you  tell  the  same  story — you  two  outsiders — you 
two  Yankees.  But  we  don't  swallow  it.  You  two — Yan- 
kees— are  the  only  ones  who  know  the  truth  about  who 
shot  Octave  Landry  and  stole  the  pay-roll  money.  I 
don't  credit  you  with  nerve  enough  to  do  that  shooting, 
kid,  but  you  make  a  pretty  good  confederate." 

"You  mean  the  Big  Fellow?    Why,  you  mutt " 

"Stop  it!"    The  sheriff's  yellow  eyes  flashed  wickedly. 

"Have  you  pinched  him — have  you  pinched  the  Big 
Fellow?" 

"There  is  no  need  to — just  yet.  He  can't  escape.  We'll 
keep  an  eye  on  him,  and  we'll  keep  you  locked  up  until  you 
tell  us  what  you  did  with  the  moneybag." 

"Oh,"  said  Terry,  "then  you  haven't  found  it,  eh? 


TWISTED  TRAILS  211 

Well,  where's  your  case  then,  bo,  where's  your  case?  If 
the  Snake  wasn't  there,  and  if  he  didn't  make  his  get-away 
with  the  dough,  the  bag's  got  to  be  somewhere  round  the 
office,  ain't  it  ?  Did  you  find  it  ?  Aw,  you  make  me  sick. 
You  ain't  got  no  case.  You're  trying  to  frame  us ;  you're 
trying  to  pull  off  something  raw,  and,  believe  me,  we'll 
show  you  up  so  bad  you'll  toss  that  tin  star  in  the  bayou. 
Why,  say,  the  Big  Fellow  was  shot  by  the  same  gun  that 
bumped  off  Octo,  wasn't  he?  What  have  you  got  to  say 
to  that?" 

"That  we  don't  know  just  what  happened  in  the  office, 
but  we  are  going  to  find  out.  You  say  you  will  show  me 
up.  Well,  I  will  show  you  the  inside  of  our  little  lockup. 
You'll  have  plenty  time  to  study  it.  Come  along." 

"You're  going  to  throw  me  in  the  hoose-gow?  Going 
to  lock  me  up?" 

"At  once." 

"But — Nailer!  What  am  I  going  to  do  with  me 
horse?" 

The  sheriff  smiled,  his  eyes  appraising  the  animal  en- 
viously. 

"Aw !"  screamed  Terry,  noting  the  look.  "You — you're 
nothing  but  Georges  Martel's  lobby-gow.  You're  doing 
this  for  him.  You're  putting  me  away  so  I  can't  get 
Nailer  into  shape  for  Mardi  Gras. 

"Hey,  doc!  Oh,  doc!"  he  shouted  toward  Doctor 
Thibodeaux's  house.  "Come  out  here !  They're  pinching 
me  for  being  the  Snake !" 

"So?"  said  the  doctor,  coming  leisurely  out  into  the 
road.  "Then  you  should  be  flattered,  Terry;  the  Snake 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

is  a  notable  figure  at  present.  Good  morning,  Pete ;  good 
morning,  Lejeune,"  he  greeted  the  sheriff  and  deputy. 
"You  are  making  an  arrest?" 

"As  you  see,  doctor,"  the  sheriff  by  now  had  Terry  by 
the  sleeve. 

"Then  you  believe  no  more  in  the  Snake  than  I  do?" 
said  the  doctor,  smiling  flatteringly.  "It  is  not  for  noth- 
ing that  the  people  of  the  parish  elected  you  sheriff,  Pete." 

"I  only  do  my  duty,  doctor." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  you  do  that  well.  Georges  Mart  el,  we 
will  say,  believes  in  the  myth  of  the  Snake,  and  goes  with 
his  dog  on  a  man  chase  to  Black  Woods.  You  see  with 
the  eye  of  reason.  The  Snake  is  not  convincing  to  you. 
You  stay  on  the  ground  and — take  a  prisoner." 

"I  stay  on  the  ground,  and  find  this,"  Pete  held  out 
the  automatic  and  once  more  went  over  the  story  with 
which  he  had  in  his  own  way  incriminated  Terry.  "And 
so  you  see,  doctor,"  he  concluded,  "where  my  duty  lies." 

"He  is  under  arrest  then,  Terry?" 

"Yes,  doctor." 

"But  me  horse,  doc — Nailer," '  cried  Terry.  "I  was 
'just  beginning  to  get  him  into  shape." 

"Ah,  yes — the  horse,"  said  the  doctor,  regarding  the 
animal  over  his  glasses.  "The  horse,  Pete,  what  becomes 
of  him?" 

"Oh,  we'll  board  him  at  the  livery  stable,  I  reckon." 

"But  they  can't,  doc;  it'll  ruin  him;  he  was  just  be- 
ginning to  show  some  condition." 

"Is  that  the  law,  sheriff?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"It's  what  we're  going  to  do  now,  at  least,"  retorted 


TWISTED  TRAILS  213 

Martel  irritably.    "Come  along,  Lejeune,  take  the  horse." 

"Doc !"  moaned  Terry  in  an  appeal  that  came  from  the 
bottom  of  the  heart.  "Doc,  I  don't  care  for  myself,  but 
Nailer " 

Doctor  Thibodeaux's  expression  indicated  no  more  that 
the  appeal  had  touched  him  than  if  he  had  been  one  of 
his  own  jade  Buddhas.  He  puffed  calmly  three  times 
through  the  inevitable  cigarette  holder,  and  when  he  spoke 
his  voice  was  like  a  razor-edged  sword : 

"No,  I  think  not." 

Pete  Martel  turned  on  him  with  a  snarl,  but  the  doctor's 
look  stopped  him  without  a  word. 

"Livery  stables  are  not  fit  for  horses  like  Nailer,"  said 
the  little  man  in  the  same  steely  tone.  "Do  you  under- 
stand, Pete  Martel?"  He  paused  a  moment  to  let  the 
words  sink  in.  "There  is  no  charge  against  the  horse,  I 
believe?" 

"Will  you  take  him,  doc,  will  you  take  care  of  him  for 
me?"  Terry  had  almost  forgotten  the  clutch  on  his  arm. 

"The  horse  goes  in  my  charge,"  said  the  sheriff  dog- 
gedly. Doctor  Thibodeaux  stepped  forward  and  took 
Nailer  by  the  bit. 

"Please  step  to  one  side,  Lejeune,"  said  he.  "Thank 
you." 

He  led  the  horse  to  the  open  driveway  which  ran 
through  his  rose  garden  back  to  the  stables  and  with  a 
slap  sent  him  through  the  gate. 

"Catch  him,  Estella,"  he  called  softly. 

"Why,  it's  Nailer!"  came  the  girl's  voice  from  the  gar- 
den. 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Hello,  Nailer.    Come  here!" 

"Hold  him  a  moment,  Estella,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
turned  on  the  sheriff,  "Well,  Martel?" 

"I  want  that  horse,"  growled  the  sheriff.  Doctor 
Thibodeaux  came  up  close  to  him  and  peered  hard  into 
his  eyes. 

"He  is  on  the  grounds  of  a  Thibodeaux  now,  Martel," 
he  said.  "Would  you  care  to  try  to  take  him?" 

"Oh,  I  reckon  he'll  be  all  right  there,"  said  the  sheriff 
nervously.  "Reckon  he  can't  go  far.  Come  along, 
Lejeune.  Reckon  we  know  where  to  find  the  horse  when 
we  want  him — and  the  Yankee,  Warren,  too." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  MURMUR  of  voices  outside  the  window  awoke 
Stephen.  It  was  morning,  and  by  the  sunlight  and 
the  odors  which  crept  languidly  in  through  the  window 
he  knew  that  spring  was  returning.  For  the  first  time 
since  being  wounded  Stephen's  mind  was  clear.  He  had 
slept  comfortably  and  he  awoke  with  a  sense  of  well-being 
in  spite  of  his  fever  and  the  numbness  of  his  side.  To  his 
amazement  he  found  that  he  was  bodily  clean  and  arrayed 
in  pajamas  of  white  Chinese  silk.  As  he  recalled  his  con- 
dition when  carried  to  the  house  he  thought : 

"Some  nurse  did  a  first-class  job  removing  the  gory 
traces  of  battle!" 

He  was  lying  in  an  old  four-poster  of  darkest  mahog- 
any. From  the  tops  of  each  of  the  posts  looked  down 
upon  him  a  tiny  mahogany  reproduction  of  the  Buddha. 
In  the  mouth  of  each  figure  had  been  bored  a  small  hole 
in  which  was  securely  inserted  a  long  stick  of  Doctor 
Thibodeaux's  favorite  mosquito  pastille.  On  the  wall  be- 
yond the  foot  of  the  bed  a  gorgeous  golden  dragon  coiled 
its  shimmering  length  of  ten  feet  across  the  gray  silken 
Chinese  tapestry  which  covered  the  wall;  its  yawning 
mouth,  turned  to  the  bed,  greeting  the  sleeper  upon  the 
moment  of  opening  his  eyes.  The  wall  behind  the  head 
of  the  bed  was  covered  with  a  silken  tapestry  of  deepest 

215 


216  TWISTED  TRAILS 

black  upon  which  a  grinning  devil  figure  in  vivid  red  dis- 
ported itself  in  antics  conceivable  only  in  the  mind  of  a 
Chinese  artist.  The  wall  to  the  left  was  a  veritable 
museum  of  weapons.  Malay  creeses,  Mohammedan 
yataghans,  ancient  Japanese  swords,  modern  cavalry 
sabers,  and  the  primitive  spears  of  savages  were  arrayed 
in  a  circle  about  a  collection  of  pistols  ranging  from  the 
ancient  flintlock  to  the  most  modern  automatic. 

Steppy  fumbled  with  the  covering  of  the  bed  and  found 
himself  fingering  a  silken  tapestry  which  one  time  had 
covered  a  Chinese  mandarin.  He  looked  at  the  books 
lying  in  piles  in  the  corners,  at  the  long  cigarette  holders 
stuck  everywhere  round  the  walls,  so  that  one  was  always 
within  reach,  and  understood.  Doctor  Thibodeaux  had 
put  him  in  his  own  bed. 

It  was  the  wall  with  the  windows  in  it  that  attracted 
and  held  him,  however.  It  was  composed  entirely  of  long 
French  windows  through  which  one  might  step  into  a 
tangle  of  rosebushes  still  bearing  a  few  blooms  which 
strove  their  best  to  crowd  into  the  room  and  fill  it  with 
their  scents.  One  of  the  windows  was  wide  open,  and  a 
heavily  laden  bush  gently  projected  its  load  of  tiny  jack 
roses  over  the  sill.  A  daringly  early  humming  bird  poised 
itself  over  a  flower  within  the  room.  Beyond  the  barrier 
of  bushes  some  one  was  singing  softly;  so  softly  that  it 
seemed  little  more  than  a  rustling  of  leaves,  and  the  words 
barely  came  through  the  window  to  Steppy's  ears : 

"Zephine,  the  world  grows  old,  never  again  this  hour; 
Never  again  this  moon,  shall  gleam  for  us  as  now. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  217 

Zephine,  my  heart  is  faint;  calls  to  your  heart  for  hope. 
Zephine,  the  world  grows  old.    Come  let  our  hearts  be 
young." 

There  was  a  moment  of  complete  silence  outside. 

"Thank  you,  Estella,"  spoke  the  hushed  voice  of  Doc- 
tor Thibodeaux.  "It  is  kind  of  you  to  grant  an  old  man's 
whim." 

"Old!"  laughed  the  voice  of  the  singer  softly.  "You 
are — you  are  Uncle  Armand.  There!"  There  was  the 
sound  of  a  kiss.  "I  would  as  soon  sing  for  you  and  kiss 
you,  as  any  man  living." 

"So?"  chuckled  the  doctor.  "Then  your  opinion  of 
mankind  is  no  higher  than  mine?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl  with  mock  resignation,  "we're  in  the 
pessimistic  mood  this  morning,  are  we?  And  yet  you've 
been  telling  me  that  it  is  just  in  the  time  of  crises  that  we 
must  not  let  ourselves  be  depressed.  Not  to  speak  even 
of  poor  Octave;  not  think  even  of  what  happened.  Isn't 
that  the  lesson  you've  been  giving  me  last  night  and  this 
morning?" 

"You  have  the  sense  of  it  at  least." 

"Merd,  you  dear  old — buzzard !  You  preach  optimism 
to  me,  and  courage,  and  here  you  sit  and  hint  at  an 
awfully  poor  opinion  of  mankind,  right  in  the  middle  of 
these  affectionate  little  roses — ouch!  Pull  that  one  out 
of  my  hair,  that's  a  duck — and  on  such  a  splendidly  hope- 
ful morning,  too!" 

"Yes,  it  is  all  very  beautiful  here,"  murmured  the  doc- 
tor. "Pure  beauty,  pure  joy — that  is  Nature.  Man  is  the 


218  TWISTED  TRAILS 

muddler.  Man  and  his  civilization!  Dawn,  morning 
freshness,  sunlight,  sunset,  afterglow — they  will  all  be 
here,  all  as  glorious,  as  beautiful  and  full  of  joy,  after  the 
experiment  of  man  has  been  decided  a  failure  and  the 
earth  swept  clean  of  the  strutting,  grabbing,  screeching  lit- 
tle busybody  on  two  legs." 

"A  failure?  Man?  And  woman,  then?" 
"Woman?"  repeated  Doctor  Thibodeaux  with  a  playful 
chuckle.  "Let  me  see.  Ah,  yes — well,  petite,  there  are 
very  few  women  in  this  world.  Wait,  wait!  Do  not 
strike  an  old  man — not  until  he  has  had  his  say,  at  least. 
Very  few  women.  Plenty  of  fine  creatures  with  the  fe- 
male body,  a  world  full  of  them,  yes ;  but  only  occasion- 
ally is  there  one  who  realizes  the  intentions  of  the  gods. 
How  often  has  the  laughable  jumble  which  men  call  his- 
tory recorded  her?  Let  me  see:  There  is  the  Trojan 
Helen;  there  is  Cleopatra;  there  is  Joan  of  Arc.  And 
now  one  lives  in  a  tiny  hamlet  on  the  banks  of  Lily  Bayou 
— stop,  stop,  EstelT — one  lives  at  Lily  City,  and  as  a 
consequence  life  there  is  becoming  very  complicated.  For 
men,  you  see,  Estella,  become  magnetized  when  they  come 
within  the  sphere  of  influence  of  such  a  force.  Some 
grow  mad  with  the  wish  to  possess — there  is  the  Trojan 
war.  Some — well,  consider  Antony.  Some  hate  it  be- 
cause it  is  too  fine  and  beautiful,  too  great  a  reproach 
to  them,  so  they  destroy  it  as  they  burned  the  body  in- 
habited by  the  spirit  we  call  Joan  of  Arc.  Some  rise  under 
such  an  influence,  some  fall;  some — some  are  content  to 
be  near,  and  see,  and — and  carry  her  roses." 

"My !"  chuckled  the  girl,  "<uncle,  it's  a  good  thing  you 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

aren't  young1  and  that  you're  my  uncle  or  you'd  have  me 
falling  head  over  heels  in  love  with  you." 

"Love?  One  must  grow  serious  at  that  sacred  word, 
child.  There  is  not  much  in  life  without  that.  No ;  with- 
out it  life  is  as  barren  as  war — as  a  war  with  no  hope  of 
victory." 

"Splendid,  uncle !  Keep  it  up.  How  many  times  have 
you  been  in  love?" 

"Estella,  you  shall  not  mock  an  old  man !" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall,  uncle;  when  the  old  man  has  got  as 
young  a  heart  as  you  have  and  is  always  trying  to  bother 
his  poor  little  niece." 

"I  protest,  Esteh" ;  I  protest." 

"I  believe  I'll  have  to  make  a  match  for  you,  uncle, 
and  marry  you  off.  It's  a  shame  to  have  all  those  beauti- 
ful speeches  go  to  waste.  Think  how  happy  they'd  make 
some  romantically  inclined  lady — say  a  plump  widow  of 
forty." 

"You  are  not  romantically  inclined,  then?  Hold  no 
delightful  impressions  after  a  meeting  with  a  desirable 
young  man?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that.  I'm  a  young  woman;  I  be- 
long to  the  same  species " 

"Stop!    For  the  sake  of  decency,  stop!" 

"I  do  not  dislike  young  men,  neither  can  I  see  myself 
getting1  crazy  over  any  particular  one.  They  are  nice, 
but  not  necessary." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  chuckled  faintly  but  with  great 
relish. 

"What  a  wonderful  thing  modern  education  for  young 


220  TWISTED  TRAILS 

women  is,  to  be  sure !  Well,  well,  I  think  you  have  enough 
roses,  petite.  Cut  no  more.  They  are  precious  at  this 
time  of  the  year.  Take  them  in  and  place  them  beside  the 
particular  young  man  who  is  sleeping  in  my  bed.  They 
are  good  for  shocked  nerves — roses." 


CHAPTER  XXV 


daring  humming  bird,  drinking  nectar  from  the 
nodding  rose  over  the  window,  leaped  upward  in 
sudden  alarm,  poised  for  a  moment,  then  flashed  out  of 
sight.  The  barrier  of  bushes  outside  the  window  was 
briskly  agitated.  An  opening  was  made  in  the  heart  of 
them,  and  in  the  opening  appeared  a  huge  bouquet  of 
long-stemmed  roses  and  presently  Estella's  face  appeared 
beside  the  cut  flowers. 

Steppy  was  lying  flat  upon  his  back,  but  his  head  was 
turned  toward  the  window,  and  he  grinned. 

"Why,  he's  awake!"  cried  Estella. 

"Do  not  fear,"  spoke  the  doctor  soothingly,  "he  does 
not  bite." 

"Have  you  been  awake  long?"  she  demanded. 

"Just  woke  this  second,"  lied  Steppy. 

"Then  shut  your  eyes  for  half  a  minute." 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  window  ;  one  foot,  two, 
dropped  lightly  on  the  floor  and  when  Steppy  opened  his 
eyes  she  was  standing  inside,  shaking  down  her  skirt. 
She  looked  at  him  a  moment  as  he  lay  smiling,  her  cheeks 
gradually  assuming  the  color  of  the  roses  which  she  held 
against  her  bosom. 

"You  looked!"  she  said. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  didn't!"  he  protested. 

221 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Then  what  are  you  smiling  at?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  usually  do  when  I  first  wake  up,  I 
guess.  But  I  didn't  look — good  Lord,  what  do  you  think 
I  am?" 

She  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  smile. 

"Are  you  feeling  as  well  as  you  look?"  she  asked  in- 
credulously. 

"Well,  I'm  feeling  pretty  well — considering  I  don't 
know  how  I  look." 

"Why,  you  look  as  if  you  hadn't  been — as  if  there  was 
nothing  wrong  with  you  at  all." 

"There  isn't  much,  is  there?" 

She  looked  away  with  a  little  shudder. 

"Not  now,"  she  said. 

Stephen  turned  white  and  red.  So  that  was  it.  She 
had  been  the  nurse !  A  groan  escaped  his  lips. 

"You're  in  pain?"  She  was  bending  over  him  in  a 
flash.  "What  can  I  do?" 

Steppy  looked  up  at  her,  looked  away.  A  flood  of 
color  crept  up  through  his  round,  tanned  neck  into  his 
sunburned  face. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  groaned.  "Couldn't  the  doctor  have 
got  some  one  else  to — help  him  ?" 

"There  don't  happen  to  be  any  nurses  at  Lily  City," 
she  said,  picking  up  the  roses.  "Besides,"  she  continued, 
whirling  round  after  she  had  arranged  the  roses  to  her 
satisfaction,  "it  was  interesting." 

"It  must  have  been!"  he  groaned  dolefully. 

"Don't!"  she  laughed.     "You  know  I'm  supposed  to 


TWISTED  TRAILS  223 

be  nursing  you.  What  would  the  doctor  say  if  he  came 
in  and  found  I  had  depressed  you  so?" 

He  turned  his  head,  looked  at  her  in  a  way  that  told 
how  far  the  subject  was  beyond  words,  then  looked 
away. 

"Well,  look  at  it  in  a  common-sense  way  then,"  she 
said.  "Uncle  had  to  have  somebody  to  help  him.  He 
shooed  every  one  out  of  the  house  but  himself  and  me. 
Somebody  had  to  help,  you  know.  There,  I  mustn't  dis- 
turb you  by  talking.  Doctor's  orders." 

"Please  disobey  them,"  pleaded  Steppy.  "Your  talk- 
ing keeps  me  from  thinking  about  things." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  think  of  that — of  anything  like  it. 
It's  over  now.  Uncle  said  you  were  so  strong  and  in 
such  splendid  condition  that  there  was  no  danger." 

"Physically,  he  meant,  I  guess.  Mentally,  I'm  in  ter- 
rible shape.  •  I — I  guess  it's  the  shock.  I  see  and — feel 
things."  He  shuddered  artistically.  "Your  talking  drives 
them  away." 

"Really?" 

"Go  on,  please.  Somebody  had  to  help        " 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  it  really  was  interesting ;  it  really  was 
a  relief  to  do  something  useful.  I'm  the  most  useless 
creature  in  the  world,  you  know,  and  I  think  of  the  women 
who  are  doing  things  and  feel  ashamed — sometimes." 

"What  for?" 

"For  being  useless,  of  course.  What  excuse  do  I  have 
for  cumbering  the  earth?  I  spin  not,  neither  do  I  do 
good  works.  With  my  expensive  Northern  education 


and  my  opportunities  I  ought  to  be  a  shining  light  of  prog- 
ress in  Lazy  Land." 

"For  instance  ?" 

"Oh,  I  could  teach  the  Cajun  women  how  to  keep 
house,  for  instance.  They've  only  been  at  it  a  hundred 
,years  or  so  down  here,  so  naturally  they  don't  know  what 
they  want." 

"Fine !"  chortled  Steppy.    "What  else  ?" 

"Oh,  there's  the  doctrine  of  fresh  air  and  frequent 
baths.  And  the  way  they  bring  up  their  children !  Why, 
old  Mrs.  Renoudet  has  had  fourteen  of  them,  and  forty- 
three  grandchildren,  and  she  never  read  a  single  book  on 
the  subject." 

"Ho !    She  ought  to  write  one." 

"No,  no!  You  don't  understand.  I  should  preach  to 
her;  it's  my  duty  as  an  educated  young  woman.  Oh,  I 
have  endless  opportunities  for  making  myself  a  nuisance 
to  these  contented  Cajuns — sanitation,  hygiene — but  I 
don't  avail  myself  of  them.  I'm  quite  useless.  I  just  live. 
Now  do  you  feel  better?" 

"No,  not  much,"  said  Steppy,  groaning  promptly.  "Go 
on,  please!" 

"Oh,  that's  wrong  of  you!"  she  laughed.  "Sh!"  she 
continued,  suddenly  assuming  a  nurse's  manner.  "Here 
comes  the  doctor." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  entered  the  room  with  a  stiff  pro- 
fessional jnanner,  to  be  greeted  respectfully  from  his 
niece : 

"Good  morning,  doctor." 

"Good  morning,  nurse.    Your  patient  is  awake?" 


TWISTED  JRAILS  225 

"Yes,  doctor." 

"Did  he  rest  well?" 

"Yes,  doctor." 

"Temperature?" 

"Slight." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  nodded  stiffly  to  his  patient,  picked 
up  his  wrist,  counted  the  pulse,  dropped  the  wrist  care- 
lessly. 

"When  a  man  has  a  pulse  of  seventy-two  the  morning 
after  an  experience  like  last  evening's,"  said  he,  "he  is 
not  of  the  sort  upon  which  my  profession  thrives." 

He  stalked  across  the  room  to  his  collection  of  weapons, 
and  returned  to  the  bedside  with  a  large  automatic  pistol 
in  his  hand. 

"'This,"  said  he  didactically,  "is  the  type  of  weapon 
which  failed  in  its  purpose  toward  you." 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  an  old  fool !"  exploded  Estella, 
wresting  the  weapon  from  him.  "You  tell  me  to  place 
roses  in  the  room  for  their  soothing  effect  on  shocked 
nerves;  then  you  come  in  and  show  this  horrid,  ugly 
thing." 

"Nurse!" 

"Yes,  doctor." 

"Leave  the  room." 

"Yes,  doctor." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  drew  a  low  chair  to  the  bedside, 
reached  beneath  it  and  dug  out  one  of  his  long  cigarette 
holders,  placed  one  of  his  long  brown  cigarettes  in  it, 
lighted  it  and  let  it  burn. 

"Octave?"  said  Steppy. 


226  TWISTED  TRAILS 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

There  was  a  long  depressed  silence. 

"Did  they  get  the  Snake?"  said  Steppy. 

The  doctor  took  no  notice  of  the  question  except  to  look 
sidewise  through  the  smoke  of  the  burning  cigarette  at 
his  patient  with  an  inscrutable  expression  upon  his  lined, 
brown  countenance. 

"Did  they  get  the  Snake?"  repeated  Steppy. 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  blew  gently  through  the  holder 
to  keep  the  cigarette  burning,  never  taking  his  eyes  from 
Steppy 's  or  altering  his  expression. 

"Then  there  is  such  a  creature  as  the  Snake?"  he  asked. 

"What?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Is  there?"  insisted  Doctor  Thibodeaux.  "You  must 
remember  that  I  was  not  among  those  present  when  you 
were  hurt.  I  saw  nothing,  therefore  know  nothing  of  him. 
Poor  Octave  Landry  can  tell  nothing;  Terry  is  too  excit- 
able to  be  relied  upon.  So  I  ask  you — about  the  existence 
of  the  Snake,  so  called." 

"Do  you  mean  you  doubt  it?" 

"Doubt  what,  my  son?  The  story  of  the  shooting? 
No,  no,  that  is  accepted.  Some  one  robbed  the  office  and 
did  some  very  quick  and  effective  shooting.  It  is  about 
that  man — the  one  who  did  the  shooting — that  I  am  curi- 
ous." 

"You're  more  than  curious,"  protested  Steppy. 
"You're  skeptical." 

The  doctor  acknowledged  it  with  a  slight  nod  into  the 
scented  smoke. 

"Describe  him,  please,  if  you  can." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  22T 

Steppy  obeyed  the  request,  picturing  the  Snake  as  he 
remembered  him. 

"Well,"  said  Doctor  Thibodeaux,  when  he  was  through, 
"that  is  no  better  than  Terry's  description." 

"You're  disappointed!"  said  Steppy  in  surprise. 
"What  did  you  expect?" 

The  doctor  stared  through  his  glasses  into  the  smoke. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  he  said  musingly.  "Something 
different — very  different,  I  am  afraid.  However,  I  may 
be  wrong.  There  may  exist  such  a  creature  as  the  Snake, 
after  all." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about,  doctor?" 
said  Steppy.  "Haven't  I  been  telling  you  that  I  saw  him 
with  my  own  eyes  ?" 

"Ah,  but  with  your  eyes  only,"  said  the  doctor  with  a 
lifting  of  his  white  eyebrows.  "If  one  sees  only  with  the 
eyes  one  sees  no  more  than  the  lens  of  a  camera." 

"That's  so.  But  the  mask  he  had  on  hid  him  so  there 
was  no  chance  to  see  his  face  or  eyes — to  see  the  man, 
you  know.  Under  the  circumstances  it  was  pretty  hard 
to  size  up  what  was  inside  those  clothes." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  nodded  approvingly  through  the 
smoke. 

"Now  we  are  down  to  the  kernel  of  the  matter,"  said 
he.  "You  saw  a  collection  of  shabby  wearing  apparel; 
you  did  not  see  what  was  inside;  you  could  not  see. 
Therefore,  you  did  not  see  this  so-called  Snake;  therefore, 
you  know  no  more  about  him  than  I,  who  know  nothing. 
You  have  no  more  right  to  say  he  exists  than  have  I,  who 
do  not  say  so." 


228  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Haven't  I  ?"  laughed  Steppy,  pointing  to  his  side. 

Thibodeaux  bowed  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"Some  one,  some  human  being,  put  a  hole  in  you,  which 
does  not  in  the  least  constitute  you  an  authority.  On  the 
contrary,  it  has  been  my  experience  that  wounded  men 
know  the  least  about  the  circumstances  of  their  misfor- 
tune. I  speak  from  two  standpoints :  I  am  not  without 
wounds  upon  my  own  person,  and  I  have  attended  many 
wounded.  You  are  clear  now;  you  tell  a  definite  story; 
but  the  Snake?  No,  no!" 

"All  right,"  said  Stephen.  "Soon  I'll  be  convinced  I 
wasn't  shot." 

The  doctor  smiled.  "You  will  have  a  week  to  think 
things  over,  Warren ;  for  man  must  think  when  he  cannot 
be  active.  You  will  be  nonactive  for  a  week.  And  some 
day  you  will  agree  with  me  about  the  Snake,"  said  the 
doctor,  and  went  out  to  the  kitchen  to  instruct  his  cook 
concerning  Terry's  rations  while  in  jail. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

/TAHE  jail  in  which  Terry  McGurk  found  himself  in- 
carcerated  was  by  its  very  diminutiveness  a  first- 
class  testimonial  to  the  law-abiding  natures  of  the  Cajun 
people  of  the  day  in  which  it  had  been  erected.  In  fact,  it 
might  have  been  considered  nothing  more  serious  than  a 
formality.  Since  one  of  the  requisite  evidences  of  true 
progress  in  a  civilized  community  is  furnished  by  its  pro- 
vision for  caging  such  members  of  the  civic  body  as  trans- 
gress the  crystallized  prejudices  of  the  majority,  Lily  City 
had  to  have  a  jail,  but  being  Lily  City  its  penal  edifice 
offended  as  little  as  possible  the  genial  atmosphere  of 
Lazy  Land. 

The  calabozo  was  a  tiny  boxlike  structure,  square  of 
proportions  and  painted  white,  on  the  up-the-bayou  out- 
skirts of  town  where  the  highway,  which  for  the  space  of 
half  a  mile  made  bold  pretense  at  being  a  street,  frankly 
gave  up  the  struggle  and  became  a  black-dirt  bayou  road. 
Nature  had  been  kind  to  the  outward  appearance  of  the 
jail,  as  it  was  to  all  exteriors  at  Lily  City,  and  with  no 
encouragement  from  the  authorities  had  all  but  covered 
the  low  building  with  a  growth  of  vines.  A  gum  tree 
grew  in  the  dooryard,  hiding  most  of  the  building  from 
the  street,  and  in  the  rear  there  was  a  tangle  of  brush 
which  secluded  it  effectively  from  the  great  cane  fields  be- 
yond. 

229 


230  TWISTED  TRAILS 

The  interior  consisted  of  a  single  room  with  a  parti- 
tion of  iron  bars  a  scant  yard  inside  the  door,  and  a  single 
barred  window  in  the  rear  wall  to  give  light  and  air. 
McGurk,  during  the  first  part  of  his  incarceration,  dis- 
covered that  the  floor  area  of  this  antique  dungeon  was 
exactly  four  paces  wide  by  five  paces  long,  and  that  if 
a  prisoner  walked  round  and  round  with  no  pause  for  rest 
he  eventually  became  dizzy.  He  also  discovered  that 
decrepit  as  the  walls  and  bars  of  the  lockup  appeared,  they 
were  entirely  adequate  to  confine  a  prisoner  of  his  strength 
and  lack  of  experience  in  jail  breaking.  Having  discov- 
ered this,  Terry  philosophically  dropped  the  role  of  caged 
wildcat.  Simmering  down,  he  kicked  methodically  upon 
the  iron  bars  and  shouted : 

"Hey,  bo!    When  do  I  eat?" 

Lejeune,  the  deputy,  awoke  with  such  a  start  that  he 
nearly  fell  off  the  bench  upon  which  he  was  reclining  in  the 
sun  before  the  jail. 

"Think  you're  going  to  pull  any  hunger-strike  stuff  on 
me?"  demanded  the  unco  wed  prisoner.  "You  got  me  in 
here ;  now  you  got  to  feed  me.  Come  on !  Come  through 
with  some  eats." 

Lejeune  yawned,  stretched  himself,  moved  to  the  door- 
step, where  he  could  watch  his  charge,  and  sat  down. 

"I  was  dreaming  of  eats,"  he  drawled  with  a  second 
mighty  yawn.  "Cou  bouillon  and  fried  cat  and  cawn 
bread  and  coffee.  Jest  had  breakfast,  too;  but  I  sure 
could  eat  again." 

"I  ain't  had  any  breakfast  at  all!"  retorted  Terry. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  231 

"How  about  it;  don't  you  feed  prisoners  in  this  hoose- 
gow  ?" 

"Oh,  you're  going  to  get  your  food  sure  'nough," 
yawned  Lejeune.  "Reckon  that's  why  I  dreamed  about 
eating.  Ol'  Doc  Thibodeaux's  taking  care  of  that.  'Spect 
that  cook  of  his'll  be  'long  any  minute  now.  Sure  can 
cook,  that  woman.  Wish  I  was  going  to  get  breakfast 
from  her." 

"Well,  you  ain't,"  snapped  Terry. 

"I  might  take  most  of  it  away  from  you  at  that," 
warned  Lejeune. 

"Eh  yah!  Try  it  See  what  the  doc  would  have  to 
say  to  that." 

"Here  comes  your  grub  now,"  muttered  Lejeune  en- 
viously. "That's  too  much  for  one  man,  what  she's  bring- 
ing. B'jou',  Blanche." 

"B'jou',  M'sieu  Lejeune,"  replied  the  doctor's  cook: 
then  she  peered  through  the  doorway  and  saw  Terry's 
face  pressed  against  the  bars. 

"Hello,  Snowball!"  greeted  the  boy,  and  the  darky's 
vast  features  split  in  a  great  grin. 

"Docteh  say  Ah  bring  you  liT  snack,"  she  chuckled, 
opening  the  basket  upon  her  arm. 

An  odor  rose  from  the  basket,  a  warm,  inviting  odor 
which  permeated  the  atmosphere  of  the  little  room  and 
made  Lejeune's  mouth  water. 

"What  you  got  in  there?"  he  demanded. 

"LiT  snack,"  replied  Blanche.  "LiT  fried  cat  and  liT 
cawn  bread  and  liT  mess  o'  shrimps  and  coffee." 


232  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Give  it  to  me,"  demanded  Terry  sternly.  "I'm  starv- 
ing." 

"Well,  honey,  you  sho  ain't  gwin  stahve  long's  Blanche 
do  cooking  foh  Docteh  Thib'deaux,"  said  Blanche  sooth- 
ingly. "Docteh  say  Ah  gwin  feed  you  and  Ah  reckon 
you  ain't  gwin  suffeh." 

Lejeune  sadly  unlocked  the  door  and  allowed  the  cook 
to  pass  the  odorous  hamper  to  the  prisoner. 

"Ah  come  roun'  noon  with  'nutheh  liT  snack,"  volun- 
teered Blanche.  "You  all  lake  gumbo?  Ah  bring  you 
liT.  Or  mebbe  HT  cou  bouillon.  Docteh  say  feed  you, 
and  reckon  Ah  will." 

Terry  spread  his  repast  carefully  upon  the  boards  that 
served  as  a  cot,  and  poured  the  coffee. 

"Kind  of  poor,  I  guess!"  he  murmured,  as  he  set  to 
work.  "Um-m-m,  baby!  Lejeune,  what  did  you  have 
for  breakfast?" 

"Didn't  have  much,"  grumbled  the  hungry  Cajun. 

Terry  looked  at  him  over  a  browned  piece  of  catfish. 
Lejeune  was  eyeing  the  fish,  and  the  Adam's  apple  in  his 
long  lean  throat  was  rising  and  falling  suggestively. 
Terry  concentrated  his  movements  upon  fish,  corn  bread, 
shrimps  and  black  coffee  for  several  minutes,  but  his 
mind  was  busy  with  another  problem. 

"Whew!"  he  said  presently.  "Little  Blanche  must 
think  I'm  a  whale.  I'll  have  to  tell  her  not  to  bring  so 
much  grub  next  time." 

The  deputy  gulped  painfully. 

"Why?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  it  ain't  right  to  waste  food,"  said  Terry  casually. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  233 

"She's  brought  about  twice  as  much  as  I  need.  I'll  tell 
her  to  cut  my  dose  in  half.  No  sense  wasting  so  much." 

"Wasting  it?"  stammered  Lejeune.     "Good  God!" 

He  rose  and  went  outside,  unable  to  bear  the  spectacle 
of  his  prisoner  engaged  in  the  absorption  of  Blanche's 
far-famed  viands.  Presently  he  returned,  and  lounged  up 
to  the  door  in  the  bars. 

"Ain't  no  need  to  tell  her  to  cut  down  your  grub,"  he 
said.  "Doc  Thibodeaux  won't  miss  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Terry  indifferently,  splitting  a  piece  of 
golden  corn  bread,  "but  that's  no  reason  why  I  should 
throw  good  food  away." 

"No  need  to  throw  it  away." 

"Mean  I  ought  to  try  and  eat  it  all?    It'd  kill  me." 

"I  mean  I  could  help  you,  mebbe,"  said  the  deputy. 

Terry  went  on  with  his  meal  without  replying. 

"There !"  he  said  presently,  sitting  back  in  contentment. 
"Some  feed!  And  look  at  what's  left — catfish,  um-m! 
Shrimps,  corn  bread,  wow!  And  coffee  that — say, 
Lejeune,  what'll  I  do  with  it?" 

Lejeune  was  unlocking  the  cell  door. 

"I'll  take  care  of  it,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  sure  will 
take  care  of  that  food." 

"Look  here,  bo,"  said  Terry,  "you  treat  me  white  or 
I'll  tell  Blanche  not  to  bring  any  grub  at  all." 

Lejeune  winked  fraternally  as  he  sank  his  teeth  in  the 
succulent  white  meat  of  the  catfish. 

"I  got  to  be  hard  when  the  Sheriff's  round,"  said  he, 
"but  man,  that  woman  sure  can  cook." 


234  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Said  Blanche  on  the  morrow  as  she  delivered  Terry's 
noon  repast : 

"Man,  for  a  little  man  you  sho  can  tuck  away  a  right 
smart  of  vittles." 

"To-morrow,"  retorted  Terry,  "you  bring  just  twice 
as  much  as  you've  got  here,  understand  ?" 

"But,  man " 

"Twice  as  much.  You  said  you  were  going  to  feed 
me  well  and  that's  what  I  require.  You  don't  see  any 
leavings,  do  you  ?" 

"Sho  don't" 

"Then  double  the  order,  Snowball,  and  save  my  life." 

In  strict  truth  it  was  not  quite  his  life  that  Terry  in- 
tended to  save  through  the  medium  of  Blanche's  excellent 
cooking  and  generosity,  though  had  he  been  destined  to 
linger  long  in  the  tiny  bastile,  he  asserted,  he  would  have 
perished  of  anguish  and  worry.  But  the  way  to  Lejeune's 
heart,  and  something  else,  was  open  to  Terry  via  the 
appetizing  dishes  from  the  doctor's  kitchen.  Terry  had 
but  a  poor  appetite  himself  during  these  days  of  incar- 
ceration. Only  while  Blanche  was  in  sight  would  he  pre- 
tend to  attack  the  viands  with  gusto.  The  moment  she  had 
departed  he  would  sit  back  while  Lejeune,  with  a  look 
round  to  make  sure  that  Sheriff  Pete  Martel  was  no- 
where about,  would  enter  the  cell  and  put  away  food  for 
two  at  a  rate  that  made  Terry  stare. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Lejeune  asserted,  he  was 
being  properly  fed.  His  usual  meals,  taken  away  from 
the  jail,  were  mere  appetizers  to  whet  his  appetite  for  the 
serious  eating  awaiting  him  when  he  returned  to  his 


TWISTED  TRAILS  235 

prisoner.    At  the  end  of  a  week  they  were  close  friends. 

Meanwhile,  up  at  Dr.  Thibodeaux's  house,  Stephen 
had  recovered  so  rapidly  from  his  wound  that  after  a 
week  as  an  invalid  he  was  permitted  to  be  up  and  round 
the  house.  To  celebrate  the  event  Blanche,  the  doctor's 
cook,  outdid  herself  in  the  kitchen  and  the  meal  that 
came  to  Terry  in  jail  that  evening  was  so  generous  and 
enticing  as  to  be  the  complete  ruin  of  Deputy  Lejeune. 

"I  sure  hope  they  sentence  you  here  for  life,"  he  drawled 
enthusiastically  as  he  stretched  himself  upon  Terry's  bunk 
after  the  colossal  meal. 

"Thanks,  Pete,"  said  Terry.  "The  same  to  you  and 
many  of  them." 

"Reckon  it's  too  good  to  last  though,"  muttered 
Lejeune  sleepily.  "Reckon  they'll  take  you  away  to  some 
big  jail  and  then  I'll  starve  again.  Ho  hum!  I  could 
stretch  right  out  here  and  sleep  till  daylight." 

"Go  to  it !"  said  Terry  carelessly. 

"No,  no."  The  deputy's  words  were  little  more  than 
a  murmur.  "No,  I'll  just  rest  a  minute,  then  I  got  to 
lock  up.  Ho  hum!" 

It  had  been  a  heavy  meal.  For  a  week  Lejeune  had 
been  treating  himself  to  six  meals  per  diem,  and  the  pace 
was  telling.  It  was  very  comfortable  to  lie  there  and  rest 
a  few  minutes.  In  fact,  it  would  have  required  a  con- 
siderable effort  to  arise  after  having  lain  down;  and 
the  overfed  Cajun  was  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  effort. 
His  eyes  closed.  His  mouth  came  open.  Presently  a 
snore  rumbled  forth  in  the  silence  of  the  little  lamplit 
cell.  Deputy  Lejeune  was  taking  his  after-dinner  nap. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

this  same  evening  Estella  Reid  left  the  doctor's 
house  and  set  forth  to  pay  a  troubled  visit  to  old 
Pierre  Martel.  She  had  kept  silent  concerning  the  state- 
ments Georges  had  made  that  night  in  the  garden  con- 
cerning her  property,  but  she  had  not  forgotten.  Pierre 
Martel  was  her  guardian.  She  had  trusted  him  as  im- 
plicitly as  if  he  had  been  her  father.  She  did  not  wish 
to  believe  that  Georges  had  told  the  truth;  therefore  she 
bent  her  steps  toward  the  aristocratic  Martel  house, 
.  determined  to  have  an  accounting. 

The  night  was  dark  and  heavy,  but  she  knew  her  way 
blindfolded  through  the  Martel  grounds.  A  light  from 
the  library  shone  out  over  the  gallery  with  its  stately 
white  pillars  and  illumined  the  curving  shell  drive  at 
the  front  of  the  house.  Estella  saw  a  man  emerge  from 
the  darkness  and  run  swiftly  across  the  light.  The 
library  door  swung  open  and  he  disappeared  inside. 

The  girl  paused.  The  man  was  Pete  Martel,  the 
sheriff;  and  despite  his  high  office  Pete  Martel  was  not 
accustomed  to  come  running  into  the  Martel  mansion 
without  knocking.  Only  for  a  moment  did  she  hesitate. 
It  was  obvious  that  Pete  had  not  merely  dropped  in  to 
pass  the  evening.  She  reached  the  gallery  without  show- 
ing herself  in  the  light  and  crept  along  the  dark  wall 

236 


TWISTED  TRAILS  237 

until  she  stood  peering  through  the  shutters  of  the  open 
library  window. 

The  Sheriff  stood  inside  the  door,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
awaiting  orders.  Georges  Mattel  lounged  in  a  chair,  a 
glass  of  whisky  in  his  hand,  while  his  father  nervously 
paced  the  floor. 

"We've  got  to  get  them  both  out  of  the  way  until  after 
the  race/'  said  Georges  easily.  "After  that  everything 
will  be  all  right.  We'll  have  money  enough  to  wipe  the 
slate  clean  with  everybody." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  his  father  nervously.     "If  we  win." 

"Not  if — when,"  corrected  Georges  smilingly.  "Cara- 
mel and  Homing  Pigeon  are  the  only  two  horses  that 
could  make  trouble  for  us.  Levy  has  seen  Dugan  and 
Klein.  Their  horses  will  go  to  the  post  to  run — but  not 
to  win.  That's  settled.  Now  I  want  Warren  kept  out 
of  the  way.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  him.  He 
will  be  taking  their  horse  to  New  Orleans  if  we  don't 
watch  him.  I've  given  Pete  his  instructions.  Take 
McGurk  too.  Just  put  them  away  until  after  Mardi 
Gras,  that's  all." 

"I  will  take  them  to  the  jail  at  Iberia,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"Right  away— to-night." 

"Yes.    Right  away." 

"Give  him  some  money,"  said  Georges  carelessly  to  his 
father.  "You've  got  some,  I  know." 

"Yes,  yes ;  but  this  money,  Georges,  do  you  know  how 
I  got  it?"  stammered  the  old  man. 

"No,  and  don't  care.     Hand  it  over." 

"And  if  The  Hammer  does  not  win " 


238  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"If  The  Hammer  does  not  win  we're  in  so  deep  we'll 
all  go  to  hell,"  laughed  Georges.  "Give  Pete  a  hundred 
Give  me  the  rest.  I'll  go  over  and  play  it  in  bits  so  it 
won't  lower  the  odds." 

Estella  retreated  until  she  was  at  the  edge  of  the  gal- 
lery, leaped  to  the  ground,  and  ran  as  swiftly  as  she 
could  toward  the  jail.  She  knew  Lejeune  would  be  there 
now,  and  since  childhood  Lejeune  had  been  her  willing 
slave.  Her  only  emotion  at  present  was  one  of  anger 
toward  the  Martels,  toward  Pierre,  the  old  aristocrat, 
who  had  deceived  her  so  successfully  that  she  had  looked 
up  to  him  as  something  approaching  a  parent,  toward 
Georges,  whom  she  had  once  girlishly  adored  for  his 
good  looks  and  manners;  toward  Pete,  the  poor  tool, 
who  had  assisted  in  her  sudden  disillusionment.  She 
had  not  a  thought  for  the  welfare  of  Terry  or  Warren. 
There  were  no  high  motives  in  her  action.  She  was 
angry;  she  wanted  only  to  thwart  the  Martels. 

Terry  heard  steps  outside,  soft,  quick  steps,  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  shuffling  sounds  that  usually  announced 
the  coming  of  Blanche  for  the  evening  dishes.  A  white 
face  appeared  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  the  barred  door, 
and  Terry  barely  smothered  the  cry  that  rose  to  his  lips. 

Estella  shrank  back  at  the  sight  of  Lejeune  on  the 
cot  inside  the  cell. 

"He's  sleeping,"  whispered  Terry. 

"Terry,"  she  breathed  through  the  bars,  "you  must  get 
away  if  you  possibly  can.  Pete  Martel  plans  to  take  you 
and  Mr.  Warren  away  to  another  jail  to-night.  I'm  on 
my  way  to  warn  him  now.  What  can  we  do?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  239 

She  paused,  glancing  at  the  snoring  Lejeune. 

"Is  he  drunk?" 

"No;  but  just  as  good.  I  can  get  out,  Miss  Reid," 
whispered  Terry.  "Go  to  the  Big  Fellow.  I'm  all  right. 
Go  to  him  quick !" 

She  was  gone  without  another  sound,  and  Terry, 
crouching  against  the  barred  door,  stared  at  Lejeune 
and  tried  in  vain  to  still  the  throbbing  of  his  excited  heart. 
The  door  was  locked  but  the  key  was  on  a  ring  attached 
to  a  chain  which  hung  from  the  deputy's  belt.  Terry 
picked  up  the  heavy  iron  platter  upon  which  Blanche 
had  borne  that  evening's  meal  and  slipped  noiselessly  to 
the  sleeper's  side. 

"You're  out  of  luck  if  you  wake,  Lejeune,"  ran  his 
thoughts  as  he  drew  the  key  ring  out  of  the  deputy's 
pocket;  but  Lejeune  was  in  no  condition  to  waken  for 
any  such  slight  disturbance.  He  snored  lustily  while  the 
boy  possessed  himself  of  the  key,  while  he  opened  the 
door,  locked  it  again  noiselessly,  and  fled  into  the  night. 

Terry  ran  swiftly,  breathlessly.  He  even  forgot  Nailer 
for  the  moment. 

"The  Big  Fellow!"  he  thought.  "They're  after  the 
Big  Fellow." 

And  he  fled  straight  toward  Warren,  toward  Doctor 
Thibodeaux's  house. 

In  the  meantime  Estella  had  reached  the  house  and 
delivered  her  warning.  Doctor  Thibodeaux's  decision 
had  been  instantaneous. 


240  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"You  must  get  out,  Warren.  You  are  fit  to  travel 
now.  You  must  not  let  them  find  you  here." 

"You  mean,  I  must  run  away  from  them?"  asked 
Stephen  with  a  smile. 

"Exactly.  There  are  reasons.  You  will  understand 
on  the  day  of  the  Mardi  Gras  race." 

"I'm  not  in  the  racing  business,"  replied  Warren.  "I'm 
here  to  stay." 

"Bullhead!" 

"When  a  crowd  like  the  Martels  can  chase  me  away 
I'll  figure  I'm  about  through." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  then?" 

"First,  borrow  one  of  your  guns." 

"Excellent!    And  having  the  said  gun?" 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  mill  office  and  wait  for  them." 

"Bullhead!"  repeated  the  doctor.  "Why  not  say,  'I 
am  conceited;  I  will  strut  and  swagger  picturesquely  and 
dare  the  Martels  to  do  their  worst.'  Will  you  never 
grow  up?  Have  I  not  said  I  have  reasons  why  you 
must  go?" 

"What  are  they?" 

"They  are  coming!"  whispered  Estella  from  the  gal- 
lery. "They  are  out  in  front  now." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  swiftly  thrust  a  six-shooter  and 
ammunition  belt  into  Warren's  hands.  Estella  ran  to 
the  kitchen  and  returned  with  a  basket  of  food. 

"Out  the  back  way!"  cried  the  doctor.  "Strike  for 
the  bayou.  Call  at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel  in  New  Orleans 
on  the  first  Mardi  Gras  day.  You  will  be  satisfied  then. 
Go!" 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Please  go!"  whispered  Estella. 
'That's  different!"  laughed  Stephen.    "I  fly!" 
He  flew  round  the  stables  and  up  the  street  toward 
the  jail  where  Terry  had  been  confined.     As  he  ran  he 
examined  the  revolver  to  make  sure  it  was  loaded  and 
in  working  order.     In  the  darkness  he  and  Terry  came 
full  tilt  together. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

"pVR.  ARMAND  THIBODEAUX,  soldier  of  fortune, 
^^^  surgeon  of  parts,  and  Cajun  gentleman,  faced  the 
intruders  in  an  attitude  which  projected  his  tiniest  and 
whitest  of  imperial  into  a  directly  horizontal  challenge. 
Sheriff  Pete  Martel  and  his  two  deputies  halted  on  the 
gallery.  They  had  not  planned  to  halt — had  not  expected 
to.  In  fact,  on  their  way  to  the  doctor's  domicile  they 
had  with  brutal  boldness  told  one  another  that  all  they 
would  do  would  be  just  naturally  to  walk  in  and  drag 
that  Yankee  bluffer  out  by  the  short  hair  and  be  done 
with  it,  and  doc  sure  better  not  get  biggety  or  somebody 
would  be  pretty  apt  to  spank  him  a  little  to  show  him 
respect  for  the  law. 

They  believed  what  they  told  one  another.  They  were 
quite  confident  that  such  would  be  their  conduct — stern, 
harsh  perhaps,  possibly  brutal.  And  the  reason  why  they 
spoke  and  believed  thus  was  that  within  each  of  them 
there  was  active  a  few  ounces  of  recently  imbibed  moon- 
shine whisky,  which  effectively  blurred  their  true  appre- 
ciation of  Dr.  Armand  Thibodeaux's  character. 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  looked  at  them  for  several  seconds 
over  his  uptilted  goatee. 

"Wipe  your  feet!"  said  he  suddenly.  "Do  you  think 
you  are  at  home?" 

343 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

The  elation  due  to  alcoholic  action  upon  nerve  centers 
died  rudely. 

"Have  you  been  wading  in  the  bayou,  Pete  Martel?" 
Doctor  Thibodeaux  absolutely  had  no  respect  for  the 
law.  "Will  you  kindly  notice  that  my  floor  is  not  a 
barnyard?  No,  people  do  not  enter  my  house  dragging 
tracks  of  gumbo  dirt  over  the  floors.  There  is  a  scraper 
on  the  steps,  Pete." 

The  Law — the  Law  emboldened  and  aided  and  abetted 
by  alcohol — made  one  effort  to  preserve  its  dignity. 

"What?"  blurted  the  sheriff. 

"What?"  repeated  Doctor  Thibodeaux  softly,  and  his 
square  brown  jaw  crept  dangerously  forward.  "Do  you 
require  the  services  of  an  aurist?  There!" 

His  long  lean  forefinger  indicated  the  scraper,  but  his 
eyes  did  not  leave  the  eyes  of  Sheriff  Martel. 

One  of  the  deputies  obeyed  the  command  of  the  point- 
ing finger.  The  other  followed.  Pete  Martel  swiftly  did 
likewise,  then  turned  upon  the  doctor,  and  broke  out: 

"Now,  we  ain't  going  to  take " 

"Stop!" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  took  a  step  fonvard.  In  that  in- 
stant Pete  Martel  glanced  nervously  behind  him,  and 
the  doctor's  tone  changed  instantly. 

"That  is  not  the  way  one  Cajun  gentleman  speaks  to 
another,  Pete,"  said  he.  "You  agree  with  me,  do  you 
not?" 

Pete  Martel  was  rather  dazed  at  being  classified  as  a 
gentleman,  but  he  rose  to  the  occasion  with  a  swelling 
of  his  flat  chest. 


244  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Well,  of  course,  doctor,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  he 
said. 

"Put  it  that  way?"  repeated  the  doctor,  as  if  deeply 
puzzled.  "But,  my  dear  sheriff,  how  else  should  I  put  it? 
How  else  should  one  gentleman  address  another?" 

The  sheriff  recalled  that  one  gentleman  had  just  told 
another  to  wipe  his  feet  and  the  memory  troubled  him  a 
little. 

"You  sure  didn't  start  off  that  way,  doctor." 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  with  a  single  gesture  waved  the 
muddy  feet,  the  command  to  wipe  them,  the  incident  of 
the  scraper,  into  the  limbo  of  things  past  and  forgotten, 
of  which  no  gentleman  speaks  to  another. 

"Tut,  tut!  Do  you  not  see  that  it  is  an  old,  irascible 
man  whom  you  have  disturbed?  Would  you  humiliate 
me  by  forcing  me  to  apologize  for  my  rudeness?  No! 
You  are  too  much  the  sensitive  Cajun  gentleman  for  that; 
your  name  is  not  Martel  for  nothing.  See,  there  on  the 
wall  sits  Solomon  and  sneers.  Do  you  know  why  he 
sneers  ?  Because  he  sees  me  constantly  and  can  do  nothing 
else.  But  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  gentlemen!  Come  in, 
come  in  to  my  poor  office.  Sit  down,  sheriff;  sit  down, 
Lamar,  Beausire.  May  I  offer  you  cigarettes  ?  You  must 
not  embarrass  me;  it  is  a  sign  of  hospitality." 

"We  came  for  the  Yankee,  Warren,"  said  Martel, 
digging  into  his  pocket.  "I've  got  a  warrant " 

"Stop!  Is  there  need  of  papers  between  us?  You 
are  my  guests  for  the  present.  That  satisfies  every- 
thing." 

But  it  did  not  quite  satisfy  Pete  Martel.    The  minutes 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

sped  and  he  glanced  nervously  over  his  shoulder  through 
the  open  doorway  into  the  darkness  of  the  front  yard. 
It  was  the  second  time  he  had  done  this,  but  Doctor 
Thibodeaux  made  no  sign  to  indicate  that  he  had  noticed. 

"The  Yankee,  Warren,  has  had  a  relapse,"  said  he. 
"I  have  given  him  a  drug.  It  is  impossible  to  disturb 
him  at  present — quite  impossible." 

"I  must  disturb  him,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"Of  course.  Duty  is  duty.  But  not  at  present.  When 
the  time  is  ripe  I  shall  give  him  to  you  of  course.  Ah, 
there  is  a  draft.  I  will  close  the  door." 

The  doctor  stepped  lightly  toward  the  front  door  and 
drew  it  half  shut.  But  he  did  not  complete  the  move- 
ment. Instead  he  flung  the  door  wide  open  again  and, 
standing  in  the  doorway,  chuckled  and  called,  as  one 
might  call  to  a  naughty  schoolboy,  into  the  darkness  of 
the  front  yard,  whither  the  sheriff  had  glanced: 

"Come  in,  Georges  Martel,  come  in!  Don't  skulk  in 
the  dark ;  you  might  get  shot  for  a  stray  dog.  Come  in, 
man!  Your  minions  need  you!" 

He  stood  on  the  threshold,  his  small  figure  proudly 
erect,  and  laughed  a  laugh  that  might  have  come  from  the 
twisted  lips  of  the  gargoyle  on  the  wall.  Out  in  the  yard 
Georges  Martel  stepped  out  from  the  tree  behind  which 
he  had  been  hiding. 

"How  have  the  mighty  fallen!"  chuckled  the  doctor. 
"Is  it  possible?  The  scion  of  the  family  of  Martel  skulks 
about  like  a  thief  in  the  dark!"  He  leaned  forward  and 
peered  at  Georges  Martel  as  the  latter  stepped  angrily 
forward  into  the  ray  of  light  from  the  door.  "Yes,  it  is 


246  TWISTED  TRAILS 

la  Mattel.  Let  us  ponder  upon  this.  What  crime  has 
distorted  the  mind  of  a  Mattel  to  make  him  sneak  about 
in  the  dark?  What  fear  rides  his  shoulders  to  make  him 
a  coward?  What  is  on  your  conscience,  Georges  Mattel, 
that  you  send  your  minions  in  where  you  fear  to  come 
yourself?" 

"Fear?"  said  Georges  with  a  careless  laugh. 

"Prudence,  then." 

"Distaste — for  certain  company,  perhaps/'  suggested 
Georges.  "Pete!" 

At  the  word  the  sheriff  leaped  to  his  feet  and  rushed 
for  the  bedroom.  Doctor  Thibodeaux  did  not  move. 

"He's  gone!"  cried  Pete. 

"Who  is  gone,  sheriff?"  said  Doctor  Thibodeaux. 

"The  Yankee,  Warren!" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  looked  at  the  old  dock  on  his  office 
wall  and  yawned. 

"Yes.  Gone  for  some  time.  It  grows  late;  I  shall 
retire,"  he  said  contentedly.  "Good  night,  Georges; 
good  night,  Pete,  Beausire;  good  night,  Lamar." 

"You — you  have  tricked  us !"  cried  the  sheriff. 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  waved  him  out  with  an  imperious 
gesture. 

"Your  mission  is  ended  here,  Pete  Mattel,"  said  he. 
"Warren  is  far  away  by  this  time.  Good  night!" 

"You  will  pay  for  this." 

"Pete !"  called  the  doctor  suddenly.  The  sheriff  halted 
at  the  door. 

"Look!    Look  at  Solomon,  Pete!" 

And  the  leering  gargoyle  on  the  wall  seemed  to  grin. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"DIG  FELLOW!"  gasped  Terry  as  he  ran  against 
Stephen  in  the  dark.  "Don't  wake  me  if  I'm  dream- 
ing! How's  Nailer?" 

Stephen's  reply  was  to  grasp  the  boy  by  the  hand  and 
drag  him  toward  the  bayou  on  the  run. 

"Nailer?"  insisted  Terry.  I 

"He's  in  the  doctor's  stables.     Come  along." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do,  pull  my  arm  out  of  the 
socket?"  groaned  Terry,  as  they  came  to  a  halt  on  the 
brink  of  the  water. 

"Stay  right  here;  keep  quiet,"  commanded  Stephen. 
He  prowled  carefully  in  the  darkness  down  the  bayou 
shore  to  the  office  pier  where  his  pirogue  lay,  and  came 
paddling  back  to  Terry. 

"Get  in." 

"But,  Nailer " 

"Get  in,  quick.     In  the  bow.     Sit  still!" 

He  paused  a  moment,  peering  back  toward  the  doctor's 
and  toward  the  jail,  listening  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  pur- 
suit. Then  with  a  strong  push  of  the  paddle  he  shot  away 
from  shore  and  like  the  passing  of  a  shadow  along  the 
water  the  pirogue  slipped  down  the  bay  into  the  maw  of 
the  night. 

For  a  while  there  was  no  sound  in  the  boat  louder 

247 


248  TWISTED  TRAILS 

than  the  excited  breathing  of  its  two  occupants.  A 
muskrat  dived  into  the  water  with  a  loud  plop,  a  bat 
whirred  invisibly  in  the  darkness  above  their  heads,  and 
a  floating  lily  patch  caught  and  held  the  pirogue  with  its 
verdant  tentacles.  Terry  shuddered. 

"I  dunno  but  what  I'd  rather  be  back  in  jail,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Keep  quiet!" 

Stephen  worked  the  boat  free  from  the  lily  leaves  and 
in  the  darkness  ran  the  nose  plump  into  a  mud  bank.  A 
startled  crane  of  huge  size  rose  from  the  bank,  its  slow 
wings  mournfully  swishing  the  air.  A  deadhead,  a  water- 
soaked  log  with  one  end  out  of  water,  nearly  capsized 
them;  a  huge  garfish,  lying  on  the  surface,  splashed 
away  in  terror.  Then  they  were  out  of  the  bay  with  a 
bend  between  them  and  Lily  City,  and  Terry  released  his 
pent-up  excitement. 

"A  clean  get-away !  What  do  you  know  about  that !" 
he  cried ;  and  the  next  instant  Stephen  was  struggling  to 
keep  the  cranky  craft  from  capsizing,  for  Terry's  gesture 
of  relief  had  spilled  the  basket  of  food  into  the  bayou  and 
sent  the  pirogue  over  on  one  side. 

"Gosh !"  he  gasped  when  the  boat  finally  was  on  an 
even  keel,  "sitting  in  one  of  these  things  is  like  sitting  on 
a  tight  rope !" 

"How  did  you  happen  to  be  free?"  demanded  Stephen. 

Terry  swiftly  described  Miss  Reid's  visit  and  Le- 
Jeune's  predicament. 

"I  could"  have  got  away  several  times  before  this  while 
Lejeune  was  in  my  cell  eating,"  he  confided,  "but  what 


TWISTED  TRAILS  249 

was  the  use?  I'd  have  had  to  stick  around  here  and 
they'd  have  picked  me  up  again  in  a  hurry." 

"Why  would  you  have  had  to  stick  around  here?" 
asked  Stephen. 

"Huh!  Weren't  you  flat  on  your  back  up  at  doc's?" 

"You  should  have  escaped,  nevertheless,"  said  Ste- 
phen. "You  could  have  taken  Nailer  and  got  away  to 
New  Orleans  and  put  him  in  the  hands  of  a  trainer." 

"I  thought  of  that,"  muttered  Terry.  "Two  weeks  in 
old  Pop  Brady's  hands  and  he'd  have  been  perfect.  It's 
all  off  with  him  now.  The  Martels  will  have  a  walk-over 
with  The  Hammer.  Aw,  what's  the  use  of  talking! 
Cheer  up,  Terry;  some  day  they  got  to  run  for  you. 
How's  the  shoulder,  Big  Fellow  ?  Have  they  heard  any- 
thing about  the  Snake?  Lejeune  told  me  Mr.  Hartland 
has  put  his  own  detectives  on  the  case  but  they  haven't 
found  a  trace  of  him.  And  imagine  them  accusing  us 
of  pulling  off  the  job!  Well,  it  worked  for  what  they 
were  after;  they've  put  the  Nailer  out  of  the  Handicap. 
Where  we  going,  Big  Fellow;  what's  the  game?" 

"First  of  all,  to  get  away  and  hide,"  replied  Stephen. 
"Pete  Martel  and  his  gang  will  be  out  looking  for  us  soon 
and  they'll  take  a  run  down  this  bayou,  sure.  It  wouldn't 
take  them  long  to  catch  us  with  Georges'  speed  boat  if 
we  stayed  on  the  water,  so  we've  got  to  get  off  it  We'll 
hide  till  to-morrow  night." 

"Where'll  we  hide?" 

"Where  we're  heading  for  now,"  replied  Stephen. 
"Sit  still." 

An  hour  later,  perhaps,  they  reached  the  /agged  growth 


250  TWISTED  TRAILS 

of  cypress  which  told  that  the  canebrake  had  ended  and 
the  swamp  begun.  Here  Stephen  turned  the  nose  of  the 
pirogue  into  the  eastern  bank  of  the  bayou. 

"In  there?"  demanded  Terry,  peering  into  the  gloom 
of  the  swamp.  "Bo,  you  certainly  pick  sweet  places  to 
hide  out  in." 

"Take  off  your  shoes  and  stockings  and  tie  them  around 
your  neck,"  commanded  Stephen,  swiftly  setting  the  ex- 
ample. Terry  obeyed  grumblingly. 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  getting  me  shoes  spoiled,  bo,"  said 
he. 

"Neither  am  I,"  chuckled  Stephen,  "but  I  don't  want 
to  leave  any  boot  tracks  along  the  bank  for  them  to  see. 
They'd  stand  out  too  much;  bare  feet  are  the  style  down 
here.  Now  get  out  and  stand  still  for  a  minute." 

He  lifted  the  pirogue  cleanly  to  his  shoulder  and  stag- 
gered off  with  it  into  the  swamp  and  hid  the  boat  where 
he  knew  it  would  not  be  visible  from  the  water. 

"Can  you  swim,  Terry?"  he  asked,  when  he  returned. 

"No." 

"All  right.    Get  on  my  back." 

"Hey;  come  out  of  it!"  chattered  the  boy.  "What's 
going  to  come  off  here?" 

"The  place  where  we're  going  to  hide  is  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bayou,"  was  the  reply.  "Come  on;  all  aboard ! 
Grab  hold  of  my  collar." 

With  the  boy  on  his  back  he  waded  out  until  the  water 
was  breast  deep  and  began  to  swim  down  the  bayou. 
Fifty  yards  away  he  shifted  his  course  toward  the  oppo- 
site bank,  and  presently  found  bottom  in  water  up  to  his 


TWISTED  TRAILS  251 

waist.    He  waded  until  he  found  an  old  cypress  tree  with 
its  great  roots  jutting  out  in  the  water. 

"That's  what  I'm  after,"  he  said.  "We'll  leave  no 
tracks  here." 

With  his  fingers  clutching  the  crevices  in  the  knee  of 
the  tree  he  drew  himself  and  his  burden  out  of  the 
water,  worked  himself  round  the  trunk,  stepping  care- 
fully on  the  roots,  splashed  into  the  water  beyond,  and 
presently  found  himself  on  solid  ground. 

"All  right.  Get  down  now,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "They'll  have  a  little  trouble  finding  that  trail. 
Come  on !" 

He  led  the  way  northward  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
canebrake,  then  turned  to  the  west.  Gamely  Terry  fol- 
lowed, though  the  going  was  hard  on  his  tender  bare  feet. 
Stephen  traveled  as  fast  as  the  boy's  short  legs  would 
permit.  In  the  darkness  they  blundered  often,  but  Ste- 
phen's woods  instinct  held  true. 

At  the  first  peep  of  daylight  they  broke  out  of  the 
swamp  into  the  open  country  of  the  old  plantation  re- 
gion. Now  they  ran,  fearful  of  being  seen  by  some 
chance  passer-by.  As  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  tinted 
the  rising  mists  of  morning,  Stephen  lifted  the  curtain 
of  vines  which  concealed  the  entrance  to  the  ruins  of  the 
old  plantation  house  and  they  slipped  within. 

Terry  collapsed  the  moment  he  realized  that  the  need 
for  gameness  was  over. 

"What'd  you  want  to  do — kill  a  guy  ?"  he  panted.  "If 
that  home  stretch  had  been  a  furlong  longer  I'd  never 


252  TWISTED  TRAILS 

have  made  the  wire.  How  did  you  ever  find  it  in  the 
dark?" 

Stephen  could  not  explain  to  Terry  just  how  he  had 
done  it,  nor  could  he  have  directed  any  one  how  to  find 
the  ruins  from  the  bayou  in  the  dark,  but  he  had  gone 
thither  with  the  subconscious  certainty  of  keenly  de- 
veloped instinct. 

"Well,  it's  better  than  being  in  jail  anyway,"  mut- 
tered Terry  sleepily.  "How  long  we  booked  to  stay 
here,  Big  Fellow  ?" 

"We'll  hide  all  day  and  move  again  to-night,"  replied 
Stephen.  "You  had  better  lie  down  and  get  some 
sleep." 

Terry  needed  no  second  urging.  With  a  grunt  of 
content  he  curled  up  on  the  vines  in  a  corner  and  in  a 
short  time  he  was  sleeping  the  restless,  twitching  sleep 
of  exhaustion. 

Stephen  stayed  on  watch.  At  noon  Terry  awoke. 
Leaving  the  boy  to  watch  Warren  took  his  place  on  the 
vines  and  allowed  himself  to  sink  deeply  into  much- 
needed  slumber. 

Toward  evening  he  awoke  to  find  Terry  sitting  and 
staring  at  him  with  his  freckled  brow  wrinkled  with 
worry. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Stephen. 

"I  was  just  making  up  my  mind  to  wake  you,"  replied 
Terry.  "Did  you  hear  it?" 

"Something  awoke  me,  but  I  don't  know  what  it  was." 

"It  was  that  big  man-eating  dog,  Herod,  of  Georges 


TWISTED  TRAILS  253 

Mattel's,  that's  what  it  was.  I  heard  him  barking  way 
off  some  place.  There  he  goes  again!" 

Stephen  located  the  deep  baying  of  the  big  boar  hound 
to  the  eastward — toward  the  bayou.  He  knew  that  in 
spite  of  his  precaution  the  keen-scented  brute  had  been 
able  to  pick  up  a  snatch  of  the  trail. 

"Pray  for  night,  Terry,"  he  said,  studying  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun.  "I  don't  think  the  dog  will  find  us  to- 
night. It  will  be  so  dark  in  another  hour  that  they'll 
have  to  quit  and  go  home.  In  the  morning  he'll  pick 
the  trail  up  again  and  come  here,  but  in  the  morning  we 
will  be  far  away." 

"Come  on,  Night!"  groaned  Terry.  "Come  on  you, 
Darkness,  beat  'em  to  the  wire!" 

They  heard  the  dog  bay  again  in  anger  and  Stephen 
smiled. 

"Hear  that,  Terry?" 

"Sure,  but  I  don't  know  dog  language.  What  does 
he  say?" 

"He  says  it's  a  hard  scent  to  follow  and  he's  got  to 
go  back  and  pick  it  up  all  over  again." 

"Fine !     Come,  Darkness,  come  on !" 

Darkness  came.  The  dog  bayed  a  few  times  more, 
each  time  voicing  anger  at  a  lost  trail,  then  silence  de- 
scended with  the  misty  night  over  the  scene. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Stephen,  and  they  set  forth. 

The  journey  through  the  darkness  was  a  nightmarish 
maze  of  torture  to  Terry  McGurk.  The  Big  Fellow 
was  implacable.  He  led  the  way  through  canebrakes 
so  dense  that  it  seemed  scarcely  possible  that  a  man  could 


S54  TWISTED  TRAILS 

squeeze  through.  Seldom  did  the  trail  he  made  touch 
solid  ground.  They  were  in  water  over  the  shoe  tops 
most  of  the  time  and  occasionally  they  plunged  through 
pools  where  Stephen  whipped  Terry  onto  his  shoulder 
and  waded  across  with  the  water  up  to  his  chin.  Time 
and  again  they  broke  through  the  brush  mire  and  saw 
hard,  open  ground  before  them,  and  each  time,  to  Terry's 
amazement  and  disgust,  they  drew  back  from  the  pleas- 
ing prospect  as  from  a  trap  into  the  darkest  tangles  of 
the  swamp. 

At  midnight  they  were  on  the  shore  of  the  bayou,  and 
Stephen  once  more  swam  the  stream  with  Terry  on  his 
back,  swimming  upstream  this  time  before  landing.  He 
left  the  boy  standing  on  the  eastern  shore  while  he 
searched  up  and  down  the  bank  for  certain  signs,  and 
finding  them  plunged  alone  into  the  swamp.  He  was 
back  in  a  few  minutes  with  the  pirogue  on  his  back. 
While  Terry  gasped  and  stared,  Stephen  slid  the  craft 
into  the  black  water  without  a  splash,  and  a  moment 
later  they  were  in  it,  paddling  silently  downstream  into 
the  darkness,  toward  the  heart  of  the  Deep  Swamp. 

The  soft  Louisiana  night  passed,  and  at  the  first  hint 
of  dawn  in  the  skies  they  searched  for  one  of  the  count- 
less tiny  watercourses  which  come  oozing  out  of  the 
swamp  to  swell  the  bayou.  Finding  one  with  satisfac- 
tory depth  of  water,  they  turned  the  prow  of  the  pirogue 
into  it  and  lay  waiting  until  the  rising  mists  made  it 
possible  to  distinguish  the  incessant  lily  drift  on  its  way 
to  the  sea.  A  dense  mass  of  wild  hyacinth  drifted  lan- 
guidly within  reach  and  Stephen  caught  and  drew  it  be- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  255 

hind  the  pirogue  into  the  mouth  of  the  tributary,  anchor- 
ing it  by  the  submerged  stems  to  the  out  jutting  roots  of 
a  cypress  tree. 

When  he  had  completed  the  task  it  would  be  obvious 
to  any  chance  searcher  of  the  bayou  that  no  pirogue  had 
passed  through  the  lily  bed  into  the  canal.  Stephen 
paddled  on  half  a  mile  away  from  the  bayou  and  finally 
came  to  a  stop  in  the  heart  of  a  tangle  of  gum  and  pal- 
metto shrubs. 

Terry  had  long  ago  succumbed  to  the  call  of  the  night 
and  exhaustion,  and  with  his  red  head  pillowed  in  the 
bow  of  the  pirogue  was  sleeping  uneasily. 

The  dawn  light  grew  apace.  The  gray  heavens  above 
became  rosy;  the  white  mists,  rising  upward  through  the 
gaunt  cypress  branches  turned  emerald  and  amethyst  and 
gold  beneath  the  first  rays  of  the  sun;  little  by  little  the 
light  of  day  crept  into  the  swamp,  driving  the  gloom  of 
night  before  it.  Stephen  stretched  out  in  the  bottom 
of  the  pirogue  till  his  feet  touched  Terry's  and  finally 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

T_J  E  awoke  with  a  throbbing  sound  in  his  ears  arid 
sat  up  with  a  jerk.  The  sound  came  from  the 
bayou.  Though  it  had  been  sufficient  to  awaken  him 
it  was  some  time  before  he  recognized  it  as  the  familiar 
purr  of  the  engine  in  Georges  Mattel's  speed  boat. 

The  boat  was  coming  from  the  west,  and  by  the 
sound  Stephen  understood  that  it  was  traveling  at  slow 
speed.  At  times  the  engine  was  throttled  down  to  its 
minimum  speed,  the  slow  putt-putt  of  the  exhaust  tell- 
ing the  tale  of  how  the  boat  was  barely  creeping  along 
while  its  occupants  carefully  scanned  the  shore.  Next 
it  would  be  opened  up  for  a  short  space  till  the  explo- 
sions rolled  together  in  the  steady  purr  of  the  boat  at 
high  speed,  only  to  be  suddenly  shut  down  again  to  its 
former  crawling  pace. 

To  Stephen's  excited  imagination  the  scene  out  on 
the  bayou  was  as  vivid  as  if  he  were  beholding  it  with 
his  eyes.  He  had  known  that  in  time  Martel's  dog 
would  be  apt  to  pick  up  the  trail  he  and  Terry  had  made, 
in  spite  of  the  woodsmanship  and  tricks  he  had  utilized 
in  concealing  it  and  destroying  the  scent  by  keeping  as 
much  in  the  water  as  possible.  Here  and  there  they 
had  been  forced  to  touch  hard  ground,  leaving  tracks; 
in  the  canebrakes  their  bodies  and  hands  had  touched  the 

256 


TWISTED  TRAILS  257 

leaves  and  trunks  of  the  cane,  leaving  a  scent  which  a 
shrewd  trailing  dog  could  follow  even  with  water  under- 
foot. As  he  had  expected  the  dog  had  slowly  worked 
out  the  trail  to  the  bayou,  and  in  all  probability  traces 
where  he  had  put  the  pirogue  into  the  water  had  been 
found.  Now  Martel  and  his  crew  were  searching  the 
bayou,  probably  with  the  dog  in  the  bow  sniffing  the  air, 
and  by  the  method  in  which  they  proceeded  it  was  ap- 
parent that  they  were  searching  carefully. 

The  putt-putt  out  on  the  bayou  stopped  suddenly.  It 
was  still  west  of  the  mouth  of  the  watercourse  in  which 
they  were  hidden,  and  Stephen  looked  eagerly  for  the 
direction  of  the  wind.  He  smiled  grimly  when  he  saw 
that  the  slight  breeze  that  stirred  the  tupelo-gum  leaves 
blew  from  the  bayou  toward  him. 

"Thanks,  South  Wind,"  he  mused.  "Martel,  Nature 
is  against  you." 

The  boat  started  again.  It  ran  slowly,  and  as  it  came 
nearer  the  sound  of  its  engine  grew  louder  through  the 
swamp.  It  approached  the  mouth  of  the  little  channel. 
Yes,  they  would  watch  carefully  the  opening  of  every 
tributary  to  the  bayou.  But  there  were  so  many  of  those 
little  tributaries,  they  could  not  search  them  all.  The 
thought  assured  Stephen.  He  recalled  with  considerable 
satisfaction  the  craft  he  had  used  in  dragging  the  lily 
raft  into  the  mouth  of  the  creek  and  fastening  it  there. 
He  heard  the  boat  approach  the  spot  with  confidence. 
No  matter  how  close  they  looked  they  would  never  sus- 
pect that  any  craft  had  gone  up  that  creek,  with  its  mouth 
securely  closed  by  a  solid  bed  of  lilies.  / 


258  TWISTED  TRAILS 

The  boat  was  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  channel  now, 
he  thought.  It  was  moving  slowly,  but  it  would  soon  be 
safely  past.  The  boat  was  running  so  slowly  now  that 
he  counted  each  explosion.  Putt,  putt,  putt,  putt — it  was 
barely  creeping  along.  They  were  probably  satisfying 
themselves  that  no  pirogue  had  been  shoved  through  the 
lily  bed.  Putt,  putt,  putt — then  the  boat  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

Stephen  was  not  conscious  of  any  movement  or  ex- 
clamation, yet  Terry  woke  with  a  start  and  sat  up,  star- 
ing in  alarm. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  gasped.  "What's  coming 
off?" 

"Hush!" 

Stephen  waited  in  agony.  What  had  gone  wrong? 
Had  he  left  some  telltale  sign  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek 
in  spite  of  his  care?  Had  the  lily  bed  broken  away  and 
drifted  downstream?  That  was  probably  it;  he  had 
not  fastened  it  securely.  In  all  probability  the  mouth 
of  the  channel  now  was  free  and  open,  and  they  would 
explore  it  and  find  marks  of  the  pirogue  on  the  bottom 
where  he  had  shoved  the  craft  over  shallows,  and  then 
they  would  follow  the  trail  to  its  end.  As  Stephen 
drew  forth  the  doctor's  six-shooter  to  make  sure  it  was 
loaded  there  came  suddenly  from  the  bayou  the  sound 
of  the  boat's  engine.  It  had  turned  round  and  was  go- 
ing back  to  the  west.  With  its  engine  increasing  to  the 
roar  of  full  speed  it  swept  swiftly  away  from  the  danger 
spot  and  raced  out  of  hearing. 

At  nightfall  they  shoved  back  into  the  bayou  and 


TWISTED  TRAILS  259 

turned  the  prow  of  the  pirogue  to  the  east.  At  the  first 
field  of  cane  they  came  to  they  stopped  and  gathered  an 
armful  of  the  cane.  Munching  the  sweet  juicy  stems  to 
stay  the  pangs  of  hunger,  they  paddled  eastward  through- 
out the  night,  and  as  the  first  gray  dawn  warned  them 
to  go  in  hiding  they  found  themselves  paddling  across 
a  lake  with  a  dark  mass  of  forest  looming  ahead.  With 
a  last  spurt  at  the  paddles  to  cheat  the  daylight  they 
reached  the  shore,  picked  up  the  pirogue  and  swiftly  hid 
themselves  in  the  heart  of  the  deep  woods. 

Hunger  now  obsessed,  rendering  them  reckless  to  the 
other  dangers  and  Stephen  hunted  until  he  found  half 
a  dozen  fox  squirrels  playing  about  in  the  moss  of  a 
stunted  cypress  tree.  He  shot  two  of  them.  Before 
they  could  cook  their  meat  they  heard  the  roar  of  Georges 
Martel's  motor  boat  approaching  from  the  westward,  and 
with  the  pirogue  on  his  shoulders,  Stephen  led  the  way 
through  the  timber  until  they  found  a  lazy  creek  which 
ran  toward  the  east. 

The  creek  oozed  its  way  out  of  the  timber  into  a  lake 
basin  which  \vas  little  better  than  a  muddy  morass  choked 
with  reeds,  through  which  they  pushed  the  pirogue  a  yard 
at  a  time.  Birds  by  the  thousands  swayed  on  the  tops 
of  the  slender  rushes — blackbirds,  robins,  bobolinks  and 
cardinals.  The  spring  song  which  rippled  so  happily 
from  their  gay  little  throats  was  a  paean  of  mockery  to 
the  harassed  voyagers.  They  chewed  the  remainder  of 
their  sugar  cane  to  the  last  dry  shreds  and  cursed  the 
snakes  which  swam  through  the  water  making  it  unfit 
to  drink.  At  noon  they  entered  a  bayou  running  east- 


260  TWISTED  TRAILS 

ward  into  a  cypress  thicket.  There  in  the  gloom  and 
silence  beneath  the  gray  shrouds  of  Spanish  moss  they 
dragged  their  pirogue  into  a  secure  hiding  place,  built  a 
fire  and  broiled  the  squirrels,  and  having  eaten  lay  down 
and  slept  far  into  the  night. 

Hiding  by  day  and  paddling  by  night,  avoiding  the 
Cajun  cabins  that  appeared  here  and  there  in  the  swamp, 
they  made  their  way  eastward.  Occasionally  as  they 
lay  hidden  deep  in  the  brush,  they  heard  the  roar  of 
Georges  Mattel's  motor  boat  far  away  on  some  open 
water,  to  warn  them  that  the  chase  was  as  desperate  as 
ever.  Once,  on  the  mud  bank  of  a  large  island,  they 
came  upon  tracks  which  showed  that  Martel  and  his 
crew  had  gone  ashore  to  search  the  island,  accompanied 
by  the  big  dog.  But  Stephen  and  Terry  did  not  land. 

In  all  their  running  and  hiding  they  touched  the 
ground  only  when  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  and  then 
they  stopped  to  efface  the  tracks  and  signs  before  going 
on.  At  rare  intervals  desperation  drove  Stephen  to  shoot 
a  duck  or  squirrel,  which  with  the  sweetish  cane  fur- 
nished them  with  their  subsistence.  When  ai  last,  after 
a  period  during  which  they  had  lost  track  of  the  days, 
they  reached  Barataria  Bay  they  threw  caution  to  the 
wind  and  paddled  across  in  the  full  light  of  day.  They 
reached  Harvey's  Canal  at  dark.  At  midnight  they 
stood  on  the  levee  at  the  canal's  mouth  and  looked  across 
the  Mississippi  River  toward  the  glow  of  lights  marking 
the  New  Orleans  water  front.  Along  toward  three  in 
the  morning  they  landed  from  a  sleepy  little  ferryboat 
at  the  foot  of  Canal  Street  wearily  praying  for  bed. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  261 

Stephen  beckoned  to  a  night-hawk  taxi-cab  and  gave 
the  name  of  a  hotel,  but  the  driver  stared  at  the  two 
scarecrows  and  made  no  move. 

"I  sure  want  to  see  the  color  of  your  money  before  you 
get  in  my  cab,"  he  said  skeptically. 

Stephen  stared  back  in  return.  He  looked  at  Terry, 
then  he  understood  and  laughed  in  spite  of  his  weariness. 
A  policeman  ambled  out  of  the  Union  Station  and  re- 
garded the  two  disreputables  belligerently. 

"What  d'you  know  about  that?"  demanded  Terry, 
unconscious  of  his  appearance.  "They  think  we're  a 
couple  of  bums!" 

"We  are,"  said  Stephen.  "But  we  can  pay  our  way," 
he  continued,  drawing  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket. 
"Is  that  enough,  chauffeur?" 

The  sight  of  the  money  wrought  an  instant  change 
in  the  chauffeur's  attitude. 

"You  got  a  room  reserved  at  the  hotel,  suh?"  he 
asked,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  his  cab.  "You  sure 
never  will  get  in  if  you  haven't.  Town's  filled  up.  Isn't 
a  vacant  room  left  downtown.  I  can  take  you  to  a  place 
on  Carondelet " 

"Is  there  an  empty  bed  in  it?"  interrupted  Stephen. 

"Sure  is — just  one  left." 

"Then  take  us  there  as  fast  as  you  can." 

The  keeper  of  the  lodging  house  on  Carondelet  Street 
led  the  way  to  a  tiny  garret  containing  an  improvised  bed. 

"You  sure  are  lucky  to  get  anything  at  all,"  he  volun- 
teered. "The  town  sure  is  jammed.  To-morrow's  the 
first  day  of  Mardi  Gras." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


ORLEANS  was  en  fete.  Once  a  year  that 
city  casts  off  the  sober  mantle  of  care  which  mod- 
ern industrialism  is  forcing  upon  her  shoulders  —  which 
in  time  will  make  her  like  other  cities  —  and  becomes  for 
the  nonce  her  old  merry-eyed,  carefree  self.  Then  the 
carnival  spirit  supplants  the  spirit  of  business;  the  pur- 
suit of  money  gives  way  to  the  pursuit  of  joy. 

A  band  marching  down  Carondelet  Street  crashing 
forth  into  the  stirring  strains  of  La  Paloma  awoke  the 
pair  next  morning.  A  horde  of  laughing  children, 
grotesquely  masked,  poured  forth  to  join  its  triumphal 
passage;  and  Terry  McGurk  peered  out  from  an  upper 
window  of  the  lodging  house  and  groaned. 

"Mardi  Gras  !  The  day  I  was  going  to  show  'em  that 
Nailer  is  a  race  horse!" 

A  wave  of  music  and  laughter  welled  up  and  mocked 
him  ;  a  girl  in  a  flaming  red  costume  beckoned  him  with 
a  rose.  New  Orleans  was  happy  ;  the  carnival  spirit  was 
in  the  air;  but  as  Stephen  watched  the  little  figure  by 
the  window  he  knew  there  was  one  heart  in  the  city  op- 
pressed to  the  point  of  breaking. 

"Terry,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoul- 
der, "Nailer  is  a  real  race  horse.  Don't  lose  faith  in  him 
for  a  minute.  You  know  he's  a  race  horse  ;  and  I  know 

262 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

it;  and  some  day  the  whole  world  is  going  to  know  it. 
The  luck  has  been  running  against  you  for  a  long  time. 
It's  got  to  turn;  it  always  does.  I  promise  you  that 
when  we  g^et  things  straightened  out  I'll  see  that  you 
and  Nailer  go  away  where  he  can  get  the  best  training 
there  is;  when  he  gets  that  you  and  I  know  what  he 
will  do." 

"But  I  don't  even  know  where  he  is,  bo!"  gulped 
Terry.  "Think  of  it,  bo;  I  ain't  seen  him  for  two 
weeks.  He  may  be  cripple.d  or  sick,  or — or  dead  !" 

"Not  with  Doctor  Thibodeaux  looking  out  for  him, 
Terry." 

"But  they — the  Martels  might  have  got  him  away 
from  the  doc." 

"Not  much!"  chuckled  Stephen.  "Use  your  brains, 
Terry.  Can  you  see  the  Martels  taking  anything  away 
from  the  doctor  that  he  knew  they  wanted  very  badly? 
I  can't.  The  fact  that  they  showed  they  were  after 
Nailer  was  enough  to  cause  Doctor  Thibodeaux  to  guard 
him  better  than  his  own  life.  He  promised  that  he 
would  take  care  of  Nailer,  didn't  he?  And  you  can  bet 
he's  done  it.  I'll  wager  that  Nailer  is  just  as  safe  and 
sound  as  when  you  left  him." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  is,"  agreed  Terry  after  a  pause. 
"Aw,  but  it's  tough,  Big  Fellow,  it's  tough!  There  I 
had  him  just  in  the  condition  I  wanted  him  to  be  two 
weeks  before  the  race,  and  I'd  sent  him  to  the  barrier 
right  to  the  minute.  It's  tough;  it's  almost  too  tough 
for  my  game." 

"Drop  that  talk,"  commanded  Stephen.     "There  arc 


264s  TWISTED  TRAILS 

a  lot  of  big  races  besides  the  Mardi  Gras  Handicap; 
there  are  other  days  coming.  Throw  the  past  in  the  dis- 
card, son,  and  be  done  with  it.  Get  up,  you  little  roos- 
ter! Be  yourself.  Cheer  up,  Terry;  some  day  they  got 
to  run  for  you !" 

"I  wish  I  could,  Big  Fellow,  I  wish  I  could,"  said 
Terry  disconsolately,  "but  it's  too  tough.  I  feel  all  in." 

A  hearty  breakfast  with  the  strongest  and  blackest 
of  New  Orleans  coffee  and  a  change  of  clothing  failed 
to  arouse  the  boy's  fighting  spirit,  as  did  the  sight  and 
sound  of  a  city  turned  over  to  the  carnival.  On  the  way 
to  the  hotel,  in  accordance  with  the  doctor's  instruc- 
tions, Stephen  purchased  the  afternoon  papers  and 
proffered  the  racing  news  to  Terry,  but  the  boy  waved  it 
away  in  disgust. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  'em,"  he  groaned.  "I  don't  want 
to  know  there's  such  a  thing  as  a  horse  race  in  the  world." 

As  they  drew  near  the  heart  of  the  city  Terry's  woes 
multiplied.  It  seemed  that  all  circumstances  conspired 
to  impress  upon  him  the  fact  that  there  were  to  be  races 
that  afternoon.  Through  the  gay,  happy  throngs 
dashed  newsboys  shouting  the  latest  sporting  editions; 
raucous-voiced  hawkers  offered  Racing  Form,  One  Best 
Tip,  Three  Horse  Special,  and  all  manner  of  tipsters' 
sheets,  while  at  every  important  corner  the  barkers  for 
buses  and  taxis  to  the  track  bawled  into  his  ears. 

"Just  starting  for  the  races,  gents !  Last  trip.  Room 
for  two  more!" 

"Naw!"  said  Terry,  suddenly  halting.  "I'm  off  it. 
I'm  going  back  to  the  room  and  shut  the  windows." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  265 

"All  right,"  said  Stephen,  after  a  glance  of  the  acute 
distress  on  his  companion's  face.  "I'll  go  with  you. 
But  first  we'll  drop  in  and  call  for  news,  as  the  doctor 
ordered." 

They  found  a  letter  at  the  hotel  addressed  to  Stephen 
in  the  finest  of  old-fashioned  hands : 

"We  have  waited  for  you  as  long  as  possible.  Come 
to  the  track  at  once — you  and  Terry. 

"ARMAND  THIBODEAUX." 

"Aw,  gee!"  groaned  Terry,  "more  racing  stuff!" 

"We'll  have  to  go,"  said  Stephen. 

"You  go,"  was  the  disconsolate  response.  "I'll  go 
back  to  the  room." 

"You  will  not,"  said  Stephen,  hailing  a  taxi.  "The 
doctor  asks  for  you,  too,  and  you've  got  to  come  along." 

Terry  came,  but  the  ride  to  the  track  was  bitter  pun- 
ishment for  him.  He  sat  shrunken  together  in  a  cor- 
ner, his  chin  almost  down  to  his  knees,  his  freckled  coun- 
tenance the  picture  of  defeat,  his  usually  twinkling  gray 
eyes  woebegone  and  dull  with  despair.  Stephen  studied 
the  little  beaten  figure,  and  he  had  no  heart  to  utter 
the  conventional  words  of  cheer  and  encouragement. 
Terry  was  too  badly  hurt.  In  the  pitiful  hunch  of  his 
thin  shoulders  might  be  read  the  tale  of  more  misfor- 
tunes than  the  one  which  he  faced  to-day;  and  in  his  va- 
cant stare  of  hopelessness  was  the  story  of  hard  luck 
piled  upon  hard  luck  until  the  load  had  become  too  heavy 
for  the  boy  to  bear. 


266  TWISTED  TRAILS 

Times  of  stress  without  number  had  Terry  weathered 
with  true,  red-headed  blitheness,  but  now,  as  each  turn 
of  the  wheels  brought  him  nearer  to  the  scene  and  the 
moment  which  he  had  looked  forward  to  for  the  triumph 
of  his  beloved  Nailer,  his  spirit  sank  to  the  bottom. 
The  bitterness  of  the  dregs  he  was  quaffing  showed  in 
the  twitching  of  the  tightly  pressed  lips;  and  Stephen 
looked  away,  out  of  the  open  taxi,  and  hated  Georges 
Martel  more  than  ever. 

"The  Hammer  will  win  it;  he's  right  to-day." 

That  was  the  consensus  of  opinion  on  the  Mardi  Gras 
Handicap.  The  Martels  would  triumph. 

"He's  been  backed  down  to  even  money,"  was  the 
word  at  the  gate. 

"So  I  understand,"  said  another  voice.  "Somebody 
must  have  got  a  hot  tip." 

"The  owner  started  it,"  said  the  first  voice.  "The 
crowd  got  next  to  it  and  got  aboard  the  good  thing." 

Terry  lifted  his  woebegone  eyes  to  Stephen. 

"Hear  that?"  he  whispered  weakly. 

Stephen  nodded. 

"It  seems  to  be  Martel's  day;  but  yours  is  coming." 

"It  seems  to  be  Martel's  day,"  repeated  Terry.  "Yep, 
it  sure  ain't  mine." 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  through  the  gates, 
but  as  the  cry  went  up :  "They're  parading  for  the  Handi- 
cap!" he  drew  back  with  a  jerk. 

"Go  ahead,  Big  Fellow !"  he  muttered.     "I  stay  here." 

But  Stephen  dragged  him  on  relentlessly,  past  the 
grand  stand,  across  the  crowded  lawn,  and  by  sheer 


TWISTED  TRAILS  267 

force  of  shoving  won  a  position  against  the  rail.  The 
seven  thoroughbreds  about  to  run  in  the  handicap  were 
on  the  way  to  the  post. 

"There's  the  favorite — The  Hammer!"  ran  the  talk. 
"Next  is  Marigold,  Homing  Pigeon,  Brazenose,  Caramel 
— say,  who's  that  bay  at  the  end — ATo.  9?" 

"Donno." 

But  Terry  McGurk  knew.  He  had  been  staring  with 
blinking  eyes  at  the  bay  colt,  fearing  a  cruel  jest  was 
being  played  upon  him.  He  looked  up  at  Stephen,  but 
the  Big  Fellow  also  was  staring  dumbfounded  at  the 
bay  colt  bearing  No.  9. 

"Nailer!"  whispered  Terry  in  awe.  "Nailer!  What 
the—  I" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

^1  AHERE  was  no  time  to  ask  questions,  no  time  to  try 
to  understand  the  miracle.  There  in  the  bright 
sunlight  of  the  track  was  Nailer,  proudly  marching  to 
the  p^3t  with  little  Monk  on  his  back  and  there  was  the 
starter  and  his  assistants  lining  them  up  at  the  barrier. 
The  hush  of  starting  time  fell  upon  the  packed  grounds. 
And  at  the  first  trial  the  barrier  flew  up,  and  the  old, 
deep  cry  rang  out : 

"They're  off!" 

It  was  a  start  to  do  justice  to  the  classic  that  was  be- 
ing run.  The  seven  starters  that  faced  the  barrier  were 
on  as  even  terms  as  it  is  possible  to  catch  seven  colts, 
and  they  leaped  forward  at  the  word  as  one  mighty  team. 
The  crowd  roared  its  approval.  Down  toward  the  grand 
stand  swept  the  racers  abreast  filling  the  track,  seeming 
to  run  as  one.  The  Hammer  had  the  rail.  His  great 
size  and  color,  the  striking  black  and  red  of  his  jockey, 
and  the  fact  that  he  was  favorite  served  to  make  him  the 
cynosure  of  the  crowd's  eyes. 

"The  Hammer!     The  Hammer!" 

The  field  swept  by  the  grand  stand,  each  horse  still 
an  apparent  contender  for  the  race.  Nailer  wnc  in  the 
middle  of  the  field,  but  it  would  have  made  no  differ- 
ence. Hundreds  of  voices  were  calling  the  names  of 

268 


TWISTED  TRAILS  269 

the  other  horses,  but  not  one  seemed  to  know  that  a 
horse  named  Nailer  was  in  the  race. 

"There  he  goes !"  rose  the  cry  at  the  quarter,  as  The 
Hammer,  running  easily,  let  out  a  fresh  link  of  speed. 

For  a  flash  his  nose  showed  in  the  lead,  but  the  rest  of 
the  field  responded  instantly  and  closed  up. 

"He's  making  it  fast  for  'em !     He'll  tire  'em  out !" 

"Caramel !     Caramel !" 

A  stringy  chestnut,  carrying  No.  2,  had  accepted  the 
favorite's  challenge  and  bettered  it. 

"Caramel  leads!     Caramel  leads!" 

The  chestnut  was  running  like  mad.  At  the  half  mile 
he  led  by  a  length.  The  Hammer  was  second,  and  a 
length  behind  him  came  the  rest  of  the  field,  Nailer  still 
hidden  in  the  ruck. 

"Caramel !  Caramel !"  shouted  the  colt's  backers,  but 
their  triumph  was  short-lived.  Out  of  the  pack  behind 
came  a  black  filly  wearing  No.  5.  She  flew  like  a  whirl- 
wind to  the  fore. 

"Homing  Pigeon!     Homing  Pigeon!    Oh,  you  bird!" 

For  a  furlong  the  chestnut  and  the  filly  ran  neck  and 
neck  in  the  lead,  The  Hammer's  nose  at  their  rumps; 
the*  rest  of  the  field  a  length  behind  The  Hammer — 
Nailer  still  in  the  ruck. 

"Caramel's  fading!" 

The  second  best  bet  of  the  race  had  shot  his  bolt  and 
lost.  Little  by  little  he  drifted  back,  first  to  The  Ham- 
mer, next  to  the  field,  then  to  the  rear.  Homing  Pigeon 
held  the  lead.  The  pace  was  terrific,  but  not  so  terrific 
as  it  was  to  be. 


870  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"The  Hammer!    The  Hammer!" 

The  cry  welled  to  the  heavens  as  the  favorite's  backers 
saw  him  swiftly  close  the  gap  between  himself  and  the 
leader. 

"Now  he's  beginning  to  run!  Watch  him!  Watch 
him!" 

The  sight  was  worth  watching.  The  Hammer  seemed 
merely  to  have  been  playing  with  the  filly.  Now,  like 
a  great  cat  pouncing  upon  a  victim,  he  moved  up.  The 
filly  heard  him  coming  and  strove  desperately  to  keep 
the  lead.  All  in  vain.  The  Hammer  was  invincible; 
he  seemed  to  move  with  the  inevitableness  of  fate.  The 
jockey  on  Homing  Pigeon  began  to  whip,  but  the  boy 
on  The  Hammer  sat  still  as  a  rock  while  his  horse  moved 
on,  crept  up  past  the  leader,  and  thrust  his  big  nose  in 
the  lead. 

"He's  got  her  I     There  she  goes !" 

Stephen  saw  it  and  cursed,  but  Terry  McGurk  caught 
him  by  the  arm  and  whispered  tensely : 

"Look,  Big  Fellow,  look!" 

The  field  of  four  horses  which  had  been  running  like 
a  team  behind  The  Hammer  had  been  disrupted.  One 
horse  was  shooting  out  of  it  with  a  stride  that  attracted 
instant  attention  from  the  experts.  The  crowd  had  eyes 
only  for  the  race  between  Homing  Pigeon  and  The  Ham- 
mer, but  Terry  and  a  few  of  his  ilk  suddenly  saw  there 
was  a  third  contender  for  the  honors.  He  was  a  beau- 
tiful bay  carrying  No.  9,  and  his  name  was  Nailer! 

"Come  on  you,  Hammer!  Come  on,  Homing  Pig- 
eon!" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  271 

The  horses  thus  adjured  seemed  to  answer  with  a 
burst  of  speed.  Once  more  the  jockey  on  Homing 
Pigeon  used  the  whip,  and  in  a  desperate  spurt  the  filly 
crawled  up  and  ran  nose  and  nose  with  the  favorite. 
The  jockey  on  The  Hammer  did  not  move.  The  blac!: 
horse  justified  his  confidence.  Again  he  seemed  to  play 
with  the  filly,  letting  her  run  neck  and  neck  for  a  space, 
then  he  began  to  leave  her. 

"There  he  goes !     There  he  goes !" 

The  Hammer's  backers  began  to  laugh.  The  big  black 
horse  had  too  much  in  him  for  his  opponents.  He  would 
make  it  a  walk-away.  Homing  Pigeon  was  dropping 
back.  The  race  was 

"Catch  him,  Nailer!"  whispered  Terry.  "Catch  him 
at  the  three-quarters!" 

A  hush  had  suddenly  descended  upon  the  clamoring 
crowd.  A  bay  colt,  No.  9,  was  alone  in  the  gap  be- 
tween the  leaders  and  the  rest  of  the  field.  He  was 
halfway  up  the  gap — he  was  gaining! 

Nailer  had  been  turned  loose.  Monk  had  ridden  with 
hard  hands  up  to  the  crucial  moment,  choking  back  the 
speed  which  welled  up  in  the  colt,  anxious  to  burst  at 
full  force  the  moment  the  barrier  flew  up.  Monk  had 
waited  and  let  him  go  at  the  right  second.  Now  Nailer 
went  forward  as  pent-up  waters  go  at  the  breaking  of 
a  dam.  His  stride  was  a  thing  for  horsemen  to  glow 
over.  There  was  no  apparent  effort,  no  sense  of  hurry 
in  his  movements,  yet  his  long,  clean  limbs  flashed  for- 
ward at  a  speed  too  fast  for  the  eye  to  follow.  He 
moved  without  urging,  he  raced  for  the  joy  of  racing, 


272  TWISTED  TRAILS 

for  the  thrill  of  contest.  He  caught  Homing  Pigeon 
and  passed  her  as  she  drifted  back  from  The  Hammer's 
terrific  pace.  And  suddenly,  a  roar  of  surprise  went 
up  from  the  crowd.  A  rank  outsider  had  come  from 
belrnd  and  caught  the  favorite! 

A  complete  hush  followed  the  shocked  outburst,  and 
through  it  there  rang  the  clear,  glad  voice  of  a  girl: 

"Nailer!     Nailer!" 

Stephen  turned  toward  whence  the  voice  came.  In 
a  near-by  box  he  saw  Estella  Reid  and  Doctor  Thibo- 
deaux.  Estella  was  leaning  far  over  the  rail,  her  arms 
outstretched,  calling: 

"Nailer!     Nailer!" 

"Come  on,  Hammer !     Come  on !" 

The  roar  of  the  crowd  had  in  it  a  note  of  command  as 
it  called  for  its  favorite ;  and  the  big  horse  seemed  to  re- 
spond. Confident  that  he  would  fling  this  new  contender 
off  as  he  had  flung  the  others  he  showed  a  fresh  burst 
of  speed  that  for  a  moment  gave  him  a  lead  of  a  length. 
But  this  new  contender  was  not  as  the  others.  He,  too, 
showed  a  fresh  burst  of  speed;  he  came  on,  he  crept  up 
and  up,  until  presently  his  nose  was  on  a  line  with  The 
Hammer's. 

"Come  on,  Hammer!" 

The  crowd  called  for  another  spurt  on  the  part  of  the 
favorite,  and  again  The  Hammer  nobly  responded,  but 
there  was  no  lead  to  be  gained  this  time.     Nailer  also 
had  responded  to  the  call  for  more  speed,  and  the  favor-  * 
ite  did  not  gain  a  foot. 

Again  a  hush  descended  upon  the  throng,  as  the  real- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  273 

ization  spread  that  the  race  was  in  the  balance.  Neck 
and  neck  the  two  horses  swung  into  the  final  quarter 
mile.  A  black  and  red  silk-clad  arm  flashed  in  the  sun- 
light, as  the  jockey  on  The  Hammer  began  to  whip,  and 
the  hush  gave  way  to  pandemonium. 

"Ride  him.  ride  him!     Hammer!    Hammer!" 

Again  and  again  the  whip  rose  and  fell,  and  with  each 
blow  The  Hammer  seemed  to  release  fresh  bolts  of  speed, 
but  in  vain.  Suddenly  the  crowd  groaned.  The  situa- 
tion had  been  reversed.  The  Hammer's  jockey  was 
whipping  not  to  go  into  the  lead,  but  to  prevent  the  dis- 
grace of  being  passed.  He  was  struggling  for  all  that 
was  in  him  to  keep  his  nose  even  with  the  nose  of  the 
light  flying  bay  that  ran  at  his  side. 

Monk  crouched  motionless  on  Nailer's  back.  No 
rider  was  needed  to  tell  this  horse  how  to  run.  The 
warrior  blood  in  his  veins  had  been  fired  by  the  contest, 
and  his  superb  muscles  responded  in  full  to  the  call  of 
his  imperious  will.  There  was  no  sagging  this  time,  no 
exhaustion  of  the  vital  forces  of  energy.  The  Nailer 
was  "right."  He  was  capable  of  doing  himself  justice; 
at  last  he  was  justifying  the  faith  of  his  little,  red- 
headed owner! 

The  voice  of  the  crowd  now  had  become  a  bellow 
of  rage,  of  command,  of  pleading  that  The  Hammer 
shake  off  this  upstart  and  come  home  ahead.  The  black 
horse  was  responding  automatically  to  the  call  of  the 
whip,  but  his  spirit  was  going.  Laboring  desperately,  he 
managed  to  keep  on  even  terms  but  he  could  do  no  bet- 
ter. There  was  no  sign  of  quitting  on  the  part  of  his 


274  TWISTED  TRAILS 

opponent,  no  faltering,  no  slackening  of  speed.  On  the 
contrary,  the  hotter  the  race  became  and  the  closer  the 
finish  approached,  the  faster  and  the  more  eagerly 
Nailer  ran.  The  fickle  crowd  was  raving,  gesticulating, 
cheering  the  great  race.  Neck  and  neck  they  swung  into 
the  home  stretch,  the  whip  playing  a  tattoo  on  The  Ham- 
mer's flanks.  In  desperation  he  spurted  with  his  last  iota 
of  strength. 

"There  he  comes — The  Hammer !" 

Once,  just  once,  Monk  raised  his  whip. 

"Nailer!"  screamed  Terry  McGurk. 

The  whip  fell.  There  was  a  flash  of  bay  against  the 
black  background,  a  thunder  of  hoofs,  a  medley  of  cries, 
and  Nailer  was  in  front!  He  was  leading  by  a  nose, 
by  a  neck,  by  half  a  length.  He  ran  as  if  at  the  half 
mile,  ran  too  fast  for  the  laboring  favorite  to  hold  him. 

"Nailer !  Nailer !"  pleaded  Terry. 

And  in  a  finish  that  drove  the  crowd  into  a  frenzy 
Nailer  seemed  to  respond  to  the  cry,  and  in  the  hush  that 
fell  like  a  bomb  as  the  bay  flashed  beneath  the  wire,  a 
girl's  voice  cried  out  joyously: 

"Nailer  wins!'* 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 

"VTAILER  had  won!  The  Hammer  had  lost!  The 
crowd,  with  the  passion  of  crowds  for  a  winner, 
was  hailing  the  new  king  with  endearing  cheers  and  out- 
stretched arms;  with  the  reckless  adulation  which  is  the 
reward  of  the  victor  of  a  breathless  finish. 

Stephen  turned  toward  the  boxes.  In  the  heart  of  the 
crowd,  in  a  box  next  to  the  one  occupied  by  Estella  and 
her  uncle  stood  Georges  Martel  and  his  faiher.  As 
Stephen  saw  them  and  noted  the  look  on  Georges'  coun- 
tenance he  forgot  all  about  Nailer's  triumph  and  began 
to  fight  his  way  through  the  crowd  to  Doctor  Thibo- 
deaux's  box. 

Georges  Martel  was  looking  at  Estella.  The  girl  was 
fairly  dancing  with  joy,  clapping  her  hands,  hugging  her 
uncle  and  stretching  forth  her  arms  toward  Nailer  as 
Monk  rode  him  slowly  back  to  the  judges'  stand.  The 
Latin  side  of  her  nature  had  broken  forth  in  a  glad- 
some expression  of  the  sheer  joy  of  living  for  that  mo- 
ment and  she  tossed  kisses  to  the  horse  and  to  his  jockey, 
leaned  far  over  the  rail,  and  threw  her  whole  being  into 
the  tumultuous  greeting  to  the  victor. 

She  did  not  see  Georges  Martel  and  his  father  nor 
did  Doctor  Thibodeaux.  Old  Pierre  Martel's  counte- 
nance was  twisted,  empty,  broken,  but  Georges'  hand- 

275 


276  TWISTED  TRAILS 

some  face  was  as  white  and  hard  as  marble.  He  paid 
no  attention  to  the  horses  on  the  track,  to  the  crowd,  or 
to  anything  but  Estella,  and  the  look  which  he  bent 
upon  her  was  so  malevolent  and  threatening  that  Stephen, 
seeing  it,  drove  his  way  straight  through  the  crowd  to 
the  stand,  climbed  over  the  rail  and  dropped  into  the 
boxes  between  the  Martels  and  Estella. 

Georges  looked  at  him  for  several  seconds  without 
moving,  without  betraying  the  slightest  surprise. 
Stephen  stood  ready  for  the  worst;  his  expression  and 
attitude  showed  that  he  expected  it,  and  that  he  was 
prepared  for  anything  that  might  come.  The  battle 
which  they  waged  thus  was  none  the  less  deadly  because 
it  was  brief  and  silent.  Martel  did  not  waver,  but  there 
was  not  in  him  the  calm  desperation  which  Stephen  had 
won  in  the  desperate  week  in  the  swamp.  During  that 
week  Steppy  had  longed  to  come  face  to  face  with 
Georges  on  even  terms;  it  was  a  privilege  to  him,  and 
his  manner  showed  it.  The  bitterness  and  hatred  en- 
gendered during  days  of  suffering  and  humiliation 
welled  up  in  him,  and  he  leaned  his  face  close  to  Mar- 
tel's  and  whispered  : 

"You  dirty,  sneaking  cur!" 

The  blood  came  rushing  into  Mattel's  pale  face  in 
a  flood;  he  seemed  ready  for  an  outburst,  but  instead 
he  laughed  carelessly. 

"How  very  rude,  Warren — with  ladies  present!"  he 
murmured.  "You  won.  What  are  you  kicking  about? 
It  seems  to  me  if  any  one  has  a  right  to  curse  it  should 
be  me." 


TWISTED  TRAILS  277 

"Martel,  do  you  think  you  can  hound  me  into  the 
swamps  as  you  did  without  paying  for  it?" 

Georges  Martel  leisurely  tapped  the  butt  of  a  cigarette 
on  the  back  of  his  gloved  hand. 

"Paying?  How  do  you  prefer  your  payment,  War- 
ren?" 

As  he  placed  the  cigarette  between  his  lips  he  lifted 
his  gaze  and  read  the  answer  in  Stephen's  icy  eyes. 

"Very  well,  Warren,  we'll  take  that  up  later — at  Lily 
City." 

He  lighted  his  cigarette  as  if  he  had  no  intention  of 
moving  from  the  spot.  Then  suddenly  his  strong  arms 
shot  out  and  ruthlessly  tore  a  gap  in  the  crowd.  He 
was  gone. 

"How  did  the  miracle  happen?"  cried  Stephen,  turn- 
ing to  Doctor  Thibodeaux  ancU  Estella.  "How  does 
Nailer  happen  to  be  here  to-day  ?" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  scrutinized  Stephen  through  his 
thick  glasses  without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to 
the  question. 

"My  young  friend,"  said  he  presently,  "I  see  that  you 
have  been  in  hell  and  out  again.  Well,  that  is  an  in- 
teresting experience,  too— if  one  gets  out.  You  were 
saying " 

"Nailer?"  said  Stephen. 

"Nailer?  Yes,  yes;  Nailer."  The  doctor's  lean, 
brown  face  wrinkled  itself  into  a  great  smile  of  self- 
satisfaction.  "Nailer  has  been  in  New  Orleans  nearly 
two  weeks." 

"What!" 


278  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"It  is  nearly  two  weeks,  is  it  not,  Estella,  since  that 
night  you  rode  him  out  of  the  stable  back  home?  You 
see,  Warren,  it  was  not  to  my  liking  that  the  Martels 
should  have  their  way  about  this.  Estella,  too,  had  a 
high  regard  for  Nailer  and  it  happens  that  she  can  ride. 
The  Martels  were  quite  sure  that  Nailer  was  standing 
in  my  stable,  losing  condition  day  by  day.  They  lis- 
tened outside  the  grounds  and  heard  him  kicking  his  stall 
to  pieces.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  It  is  truly  poetic.  It  was  a 
jackass  that  they  heard,  a  little  gray  jackass.  I  prodded 
him  with  a  stick  to  make  him  kick.  Nailer  by  that  time 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  well-known  and  efficient  trainer, 
Mr.  Pop  Brady,  who  tuned  him  up  so  excellently  for 
this  race.  Nailer  now  represents  a  fortune,  my  young 
friend.  Brady  says  he  will  be  the  three-year-old  cham- 
pion without  a  doubt  and  take  his  place  beside  Colin  and 
other  great  ones  of  the  American  turf." 

"Good  for  Terry!"  cried  Stephen. 

"It's  very  dramatic,  isn't  it?"  said  Estella.  "One  day 
you  were  hiding  in  the  swamps,  and  the  next  day  you 
have  a  half  share  in  a  fortune.  I  suppose  it  is  such 
sudden  turns  of  circumstance  that  make  racing  so  fas- 
cinating." 

Stephen  looked  at  her  with  puzzled  eyes.  He  looked 
at  the  doctor. 

"It  is  Warren  &  McGurk,  is  it  not?"  said  Doctor 
Thibodeaux.  "That  is  how  he  was  entered." 

Stephen  began  to  laugh. 

"Good  land!  Do  you  think  I'm  going  into  the  rac- 
ing business  ?" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  279 

Now  it  was  Estella's  time  to  appear  puzzled. 

"But  why  were  you  interested  in  him?"  she  asked. 

"Why  were  you  interested  in  him  enough  to  ride  him 
away  from  Lily  City  at  night?"  he  retorted. 

"I  love  horses,"  she  replied,  after  a  pause. 

"So  do  I." 

"Nailer  is  a  prince  of  colts." 

"He  is !     He  is  a  king  among  horses." 

"And — well,  there  was  the  question  of  fair  play." 

"Exactly!" 

"It  seemed  a  shame  that  he  should  not  have  the  chance 
he  deserved." 

"There  you  are!"  cried  Stephen.  "That's  just  what 
I  thought  when  I  "saw  him  lose  that  race  at  Jefferson 
Park  last  November,  and  that's  why  I  backed  Terry.  He 
doesn't  need  my  backing  any  longer;  this  Handicap  purse 
is  large  enough  to  carry  him  from  now  on.  Terry  can 
pay  me  back  the  money  I  advanced  him,  but  as  far  as  a 
share  in  Nailer  is  concerned — Lord,  no!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

TTARTLAND'S  detectives  had  scoured  the  bayou 
country  in  search  of  a  clew  to  the  Snake  ever  since 
the  day  following  the  robbery  at  the  office.  They  had 
proceeded  to  their  work  after  the  approved  manner  of 
city  man  hunters  engaged  upon  a  job  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts. They  announced  that  the  case  was  a  lead-pipe 
cinch,  that  the  Snake  was  a  local  product,  that  they  would 
soon  find  somebody  who  would  squeal  on  him,  and  that 
they  would  have  his  number  in  a  week  or  so.  Pres- 
ently they  got  together  and  began  to  invent  excuses  for 
the  failure  of  their  announced  program ;  and  at  this  work 
they  displayed  ingenuity  approaching  genius. 

The  Snake,  the  detectives  discovered,  was  not  to  be 
traced  by  the  methods  usually  applied  to  such  cases. 
Though  it  was  apparently  certain  that  his  chosen  field  of 
operations  and  his  custom  of  striking  when  and  where 
there  was  money  on  hand,  and  his  uncanny  manner  of 
vanishing  after  a  robbery,  betrayed  him  as  a  native  of 
the  district  with  a  number  of  local  confederates  who  in- 
formed him  as  to  the  opportunities  for  remunerative 
crime  and  assisted  him  in  hiding  between  coups,  yet 
there  was  not  a  clew  or  fact  to  be  discovered  to  substan- 
tiate this  theory.  If  the  Snake  had  confederates  they 

were  as  mysteriously  elusive  as  the  outlaw  himself.    If 

280 


TWISTED  TRAILS  281 

he  remained  hidden  in  the  vicinity  of  his  crimes  it  must 
be  in  some  dark  corner  of  the  swamps  from  which  he 
scarcely  stirred  except  for  the  purposes  of  robbery.  The 
detectives  spent  many  tense  hours  inventing  reasons  for 
their  lack  of  success. 

Mr.  Hartland  was  at  the  mill  office  when  Stephen  re- 
turned to  Lily  City.  Hartland  had  treated  Lily  City  to 
a  display  of  energy  which  was  aptly  described  as  "rais- 
ing all  kinds  of  Sam."  As  a  consequence  Pete  Martel 
had  suddenly  resigned  as  sheriff  of  the  parish,  the  charge 
against  Stephen  had  been  squashed,  and  the  way  opened 
for  his  safe  return  to  the  mill.  Upon  his  appearance  at 
the  office  at  Lily  City  Mr.  Hartland  was  interested  in 
but  one  thing  so  far  as  Stephen  was  concerned : 

"Are  you  ready  to  go  to  work?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right.  Then  you're  in  for  a  bunch  of  it.  Carkey 
has  quit." 

"What?" 

"Left  last  night.  Here's  the  note  McGill  brought  up 
this  morning  with  a  tow :  'Get  a  new  foreman  down  here. 
I  quit.  Carkey.'  " 

"Did  he  come  for  his  money?"  asked  Stephen. 

"No.  Just  disappeared  from  camp  last  night.  McGill 
found  the  note  under  his  door  this  morning." 

Stephen  opened  his  time  book  and  gave  a  whistle  of 
surprise  when  he  found  Carkey's  name. 

"That's  queer.  He's  got  over  two  hundred  dollars 
coming  to  him." 


282  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"I  suppose  he  got  track  of  some  booze  and  went  on  a 
spree,"  said  Hartland  wearily. 

"I  doubt  it.  He  hasn't  touched  a  drop  since  I  have 
been  in  charge  here." 

"He  has  been  steady,  that's  a  fact,"  agreed  Hartland 
"Well,  he's  off  the  job  anyway.  You'll  have  to  get  into 
your  speed  boat  and  get  busy.  I'll  stay  here  till  you 
get  a  new  foreman  broken  in  down  there.  McGill  says 
the  camp's  all  shot  to  pieces." 

At  Camp  Haute  Isle  Stephen  found  considerable  di- 
vergence of  opinion  regarding  the  mysterious  disappear- 
ance of  Foreman  Carkey. 

"Carkey  sure  knew  what  he  was  doing,"  opined  a  sal- 
low Cajun.  "There's  too  many  detectives  nosing  round 
the  swamps.  Reckon  Carkey  had  reasons  for  traveling 
while  the  traveling  was  good." 

This  was  the  prevalent  opinion  in  the  white  bunk 
house.  Across  the  camp  in  the  colored  quarters  the 
foreman's  going  was  ascribed  to  quite  different  causes. 

"Him  what  done  take  up  the  sword  am  going  to  per- 
ish by  the  sword,"  asserted  Deaccn  Hogfoot  positively. 
"Cahkey  done  sold  himself  to  the  devil  and  the  devil 
done  come  f oh  his  chile.  How  come  no  one  see  him  go  ? 
How  come  no  one  hear  him  go?  How  come  dey  ain't 
no  track?  Deh  explanation  am  deh  one  I  done  give 
you — Ol'  Devil  come  and  carry  Cahkey  away." 

"Take  a  right  smaht  size  devil  to  carry  Cahkey  off," 
scoffed  a  young  backslider. 

"Boy,  you  wait!"  said  the  deacon  solemnly.  "You 
on  deh  way  dat  lead  you  to  brimstone  and  gnashin'  of 


TWISTED  TRAILS  283 

teeth  right  now.  You  keep  on  and  you  get  picked  up 
some  night  yohself.  'Hey,  chile/  Ol'  Devil  say,  'you 
come  to  me.' ' 

"Reckon  dey  be  right  smaht  liT  ruckus  if  any  devil 
try  to  carry  me  off,"  persisted  the  young  skeptic. 
"Reckon  Ah  don't  swing  a  wicked  blade  foh  nothing." 

"Devil  just  pinch  you  like  that,  'tween  thumb  and  foh- 
finger,"  continued  Deacon  Hogfoot.  "  'Come  where  you 
belong,  chile,'  say  he;  and  he  just  give  you  toss  and  sling 
you  into  the  lake  of  brimstone  like  you  be  little  red 
jiggeh  bug.  Where  yoh  wicked  blade  den,  boy?  Huh! 
Ol'  Devil  take  you  spite  of  all  hell!" 

Carkey  had  disappeared  without  leaving  the  slight- 
est trace  or  reason  for  his  going.  McGill,  who  slept 
in  the  shack  beside  the  foreman's,  had  nothing  to  add  to 
the  story  he  had  told  Mr.  Hartland.  Carkey  had  retired 
as  usual  to  his  sleeping  quarters  the  night  before.  In 
the  morning  he  was  gone.  McGill  had  found  the  note 
addressed  to  Hartland  under  his  door  upon  awakening. 

"Coming  right  down  to  cases,  Bomb  was  pretty  much 
of  a  b::r.:,  Mr.  Warren,"  said  the  sycophantic  McGill, 
eager  to  toady  to  a  new  boss.  "He  wasn't  a  classy 
camp  boss  like  you  be.  I  guess  he  had  good  reasons  for 
making  himself  scarce,  mebbe." 

"Do  you  know  any  such  reasons,  McGill?"  asked 
Stephen. 

"No,  sir.  Except  that  he  used  to  come  and  go  with- 
out saying  anything  about  it" 

"He  was  foreman." 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

"Of  course,  of  course!  I  ain't  saying  anything,  Mr. 
Warren;  I  was  just  telling  you." 

"All  right.  Don't  do  any  more  loose  talking.  Now 
get  busy  on  the  next  tow." 

The  strange  disappearance  of  Carkey  had  affected 
Stephen  to  a  greater  extent  than  he  was  willing  to  ad- 
mit. He  was  quite  conscious  of  what  the  Cajuns  and 
McGill  implied  when  they  reckoned  that  the  foreman 
had  good  reasons  for  leaving  so  abruptly,  but  he  did  not 
wish  to  hear  it  expressed,  or  even  to  think  of  it.  Be- 
fore his  eyes  there  rose  alternately  the  figure  of  the 
Snake  as  he  had  loomed  in  the  doorway  of  the  office 
at  the  time  of  the  robbery,  and  the  burly  picture  of  Car- 
key,  Carkey  upon  whom  Georges  Martel  had  such  a  weird 
hold.  The  thought  depressed  him,  for  he  had  put  his 
faith  on  Carkey's  character.  He  had  saved  the  fore- 
man's life.  Stephen  ruminated  upon  the  possibilities  of 
human  character.  Was  it  possible  that  a  man  who  was 
as  square  in  a  fight  as  Carkey 

"No !"  he  muttered  to  himself.     "I  won't  believe  it !" 

At  the  same  time  there  was  his  duty  to  Hartland.  He 
pondered  ihe  problem  over  in  the  day,:  that  he  was  oc- 
cupied in  speeding  up  the  production  at  Camp  Haute  Isle, 
and  there  could  be  but  one  answer:  Hartland  must  be 
told  all  that  he  knew  concerning  Carkey;  the  detectives 
who  were  working  on  the  case  must  know. 

He  did  not  go  at  once.  His  faith  in  the  big  foreman 
would  not  so  easily  down. 

"I'll  give  him  a  little  more  time,"  he  decided. 

The  day  after  he  had  come  to  this  decision  a  mes- 


TWISTED  TRAILS  285 

senger  came  from  Mr.  Hartland  with  orders  for  him  to 
report  at  Lily  City  at  once.  The  first  words  that  greeted 
him  upon  his  arrival  at  the  mill  office  drove  all  thoughts 
of  Carkey  from  his  mind : 

"Old  Pierre  Mattel  is  ready  to  sell  Black  Woods!" 

Stephen  set  his  jaw  firmly  to  control  the  shock  the 
words  had  dealt  him  and  stared  silently  across  the  desk 
at  the  old  lumberman. 

"Warren,  you've  got  a  first-class  poker  face,"  said 
Hartland  with  a  laugh. 

"Well,"  said  Stephen  after  a  pause,  "I  knew  they 
would  be  pretty  hard  up  after  having  The  Hammer 
beaten." 

"That's  what  did  it!"  chuckled  Mr.  Hartland.  "You 
swung  'em  up  the  chute  and  put  'em  on  the  carriage 
bound  for  the  buzz  saw  when  you  put  Nailer  across. 
They  love  you — well,  can  you  blame  them?  You're  the 
party  that  put  the  ax  to  them.  Old  Pierre  admitted 
it,  laid  the  cards  on  the  table.  Said  he  didn't  want  to 
sell,  but  had  to  on  account  of  that  race.  Bad  -business, 
horse  racing — unless  your  horse  wins.  Georges  got  in 
so  deep  he's  got  to  stay  in  hiding  until  the  old  man  gets 
money  to  square  things  for  him." 

"Georges  hasn't  been  here,  then?" 

"Been  here!  Lord,  he  hasn't  dared  to  show  his  face 
above  ground  since  the  day  of  the  race.  Pete  Martel, 
the  sheriff,  is  in  hiding  too.  He  and  Georges  did  some 
funny  business  with  a  pen  to  get  more  money  to  play  on 
The  Hammer.  Forged  old  Felix  Dautrive's  name. 
That's  why  Pierre  is  willing  to  sell." 


286  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"But  I  thought "  cried  Stephen,  and  paused. 

Hartland  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"About  their  not  selling  until  Georges  married  Miss 
Reid?" 

"Yes." 

"I  had  dinner  at  Doctor  Thibodeaux's  last  night,  after 
old  Martel  had  been  in  to  see  me,  and  I  asked  him  about 
that,"  said  Hartland.  "There  is  nothing  doing.  So  I 
went  to  see  Martel  and  put  it  right  up  to  him.  'How 
about  it?'  I  said.  'Previously  you've  insisted  this  sale 
wouldn't  be  made  until  Georges  and  the  Reid  girl  were 
married.  You'll  have  to  explain  that  before  we  do  any 
business.'  'There  is  nothing  to  explain,'  said  the  old 
man  in  that  high-and-mighty  way  of  his.  'I  assure  you 
the  sale  can  be — and  will  be — made  in  one  week.  If  not 
to  you/  he  said,  'to  some  one  else.'  Warren,  I  want 
that  timber.  The  mill  needs  it  to  keep  going  at  the  clip 
you've  got  it  running.  Haute  Isle  can't  furnish  saw 
logs  enough.  You've  got  a  deal  with  me  on  Black 
Woods,  and  the  deal  stands.  Will  you  listen  to  a  propo- 
sition?" 

"Certainly." 

"All  right.  Here  it  is :  We'll  make  the  Black  Woods 
cut  an  equal  oartnership  proposition.  You  deserve  that, 
even  if  you  didn't  have  my  option,  for  the  work  you've 
done  here.  Lumber  has  gone  up  sky-hooting,  and  you'll 
make  more  out  of  it  that  way  than  if  you  logged  it  alone. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"I  say,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Stephen. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  287 

"All  right.  I'll  run  up  to  old  Martel  and  close  the 
deal  right  now." 

Hartland  was  back  in  a  remarkably  short  space  of 
time. 

"Darn  these  Cajun  aristocrats !"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 
"They  won't  do  business  on  a  hurry  schedule.  Well,  it 
is  a  pretty  big  deal  for  a  man  not  used  to  making  them. 
*Within  the  week,'  he  said,  'I  will  appear  at  your  of- 
fice in  New  Orleans  with  the  necessary  papers.'  High 
and  mighty  I  And  he's  so  crazy  for  the  money  he'll  have 
a  stroke  if  he  doesn't  get  it.  There's  something  to  the 
front  that  breeding  gives  them,  after  all.  How  soon 
can  you  cruise  the  Woods  ?" 

"To-morrow." 

"That's  the  ticket!" 

"I've  wanted  to  cruise  it  for  some  time,"  said  Stephen. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A  STORM  was  raging  to  the  southward  next  after- 
noon when  Stephen  turned  the  prow  of  his  speed 
boat  into  the  waters  that  led  to  Black  Woods.  It  was 
the  season  of  sudden  spring  storms.  He  had  left  Camp 
Haute  Isle  beneath  a  sky  as  blue  and  placid  as  ever  de- 
ceived a  traveler  with  a  promise  of  perfect  weather.  He 
was  anxious  to  visit  Black  Woods  again;  he  had  prom- 
ised himself  he  would  come  back  that  first  day  when 
Octave  LaFonte  and  he  had  been  warned  away  by  three 
well-aimed  bullets;  and  as  he  drew  near  the  woods  his 
sporting  rifle,  with  the  trigger  pull  perfectly  adjusted 
and  the  sights  right  to  a  dot,  lay  loaded  close  to  his 
hand. 

From  the  southward  came  rolling  a  sullen  clap  of 
thunder.  The  world  grew  hushed,  and  suddenly  the 
sun  creased  to  shine.  A  wall  of  murky  darkness  was 
moving  northward  across  the  swamps,  and  before  it 
the  world  seemed  to  lie  helpless  and  supine,  as  if  re- 
signed to  the  blow  about  to  smite  it.  The  trees  in  the 
woods  ahead  stood  motionless,  listless.  Weird,  snake- 
like  filaments  of  electricity  flashed  out  of  the  onrushing 
darkness.  The  thunder  roared  out  a  second  threat,  and 
at  the  first  whip  of  the  wind,  the  puffs  that  preceded 
the  storm,  the  water  rose,  heaved  the  boat  about,  and 

grew  strangely  still. 

288 


TWISTED  TRAILS  289 

Stephen  gave  one  look  at  the  coming  storm  and,  aim- 
ing straight  at  a  great  bank  of  lily  drift  rising  high  on 
the  beach,  opened  his  engine  to  the  limit  of  its  speed  and 
sent  the  boat  rocketing  straight  for  Black  Woods.  Then 
he  gripped  his  rifle.  In  the  darkness  of  the  woods  be- 
hind the  lily  bank  had  appeared  a  man's  figure,  a  hulking 
form  seen  as  it  vanished  behind  the  foliage.  Crouching 
low  behind  the  steering  wheel  Stephen  held  to  the  course. 
The  darkness  rolled  over  him  turning  day  into  murky 
night,  and  the  outline  of  the  woods  became  a  blur.  Then 
the  darkness  passed  for  the  moment  and  he  shut  off  the 
power  in  time  to  save  a  crash.  The  boat  struck  with  a 
jar,  its  sharp,  uptilted  nose  driving  like  a  .wedge  into 
the  yielding  mass  of  foliage;  and  Stephen  slipped  the 
catch  off  his  rifle  and  waited. 

A  man  rose  up  from  behind  a  mass  of  lily  drift  which 
the  wind-lashed  waves  had  tossed  upon  the  shore  and 
Stephen  covered  him  instantly  with  his  rifle.  Then  the 
man  stood  up  and  Stephen  saw  it  was  Carkey  and  he 
laughed  with  relief,  tossed  the  rifle  into  the  boat  and 
leaped  out. 

Carkey  did  not  laugh.  He  stared  at  Stephen  as  a  man 
might  stare  who  does  not  want  to  believe  his  eyes. 

"Warren!"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "Why  did  you 
come  here  now?" 

Then  it  was  Warren's  turn  to  stare,  for  Carkey's  hard 
face  was  a  study  of  emotions.  The  wind  howled  and 
drowned  the  sound  of  a  footfall  behind  Carkey's  back; 
the  murk  deepened  and  hid  the  figure  that  had  ap- 
proached. An  animal  roar  of  triumph  shattered  a  lull 


290  TWISTED  TRAILS 

in  the  storm.  Carkey  whirled,  and  Stephen  looked  up. 
He  saw  the  Snake  crouched  between  two  pines,  his  auto- 
matic ready  in  his  hand. 

"The  Yankee!"  The  tones  of  the  outlaw's  cry  were 
almost  inarticulate  with  ferocity.  "Knock  him  down, 
Carkey!  Tie  him  up!  I'll  strap  him  to  a  tree  and  let 
him  see  what  happens  when  Jean  gets  here  with  the 
girl!" 

The  black  muzzle  of  the  pistol  menaced  Stephen  for 
the  second  time,  and  once  again  it  gave  him  the  sensation 
that  it  was  about  to  shoot  him  down.  Carkey  stood  star- 
Ing  at  the  Snake,  apparently  too  stupid  to  comprehend 
the  command. 

"Is  that  what  you're  waiting  for?"  he  asked  dully. 
"Is  that  what  you  sent  Jean  after?" 

"That's  it!     Jump  him!" 

Stephen  threw  himself  headlong  toward  the  boat  in  a 
desperate  effort  to  reach  his  rifle.  The  pistol  roared; 
a  shriek  of  pain  followed  upon  the  explosion.  The  gun 
roared  again. 

Carkey  had  jumped,  but  he  had  jumped  at  the  Snake. 
He  had  saved  Stephen's  life,  but  the  first  bullet  had  shat- 
tered the  arm  that  he  had  swung  at  the  pistol's  muzzle, 
and  the  second  shot  had  pierced  his  leg.  He  was 
clinched  with  the  Snake,  striving  to  hold  him  with  his 
sound  arm;  Stephen  leaped  up  and  hurled  himself  into 
the  fight,  striking  at  the  pistol  that  was  moving  toward 
Carkey's  ear,  knocking  it  into  the  air  so  it  dropped  with 
a  splash  in  the  water. 

Carkey  dropped  to  his  knees  and  the  Snake  fled  with 


TWISTED  TRAILS  291 

Stephen  in  pursuit.  He  caught  him  in  an  open  space 
in  the  pines,  and  the  Snake  turned  and  leaped  to  battle. 
And  with  his  leap  came  the  storm.  A  rolling  clap  of 
thunder  belched  a  flood  of  lightning  from  the  womb  of 
the  heavens  and  smote  the  earth  a  blow  that  shook  the 
woods,  and  upon  its  heels  came  a  blast  of  wind  like  the 
roar  of  a  million  beasts. 

The  whole  world  seemed  to  have  gone  raging  mad. 
Sky  and  earth,  air  and  water,  seemed  to  have  vented 
themselves  in  a  colossal  explosion  as  if  the  pent-up  ele- 
ments, awaiting  the  instant,  had  released  themselves  with 
an  insane  growl,  intent  upon  destroying  all  things,  them- 
selves included.  The  roar  of  the  thunderclap  was  flung 
back  by  land  and  water ;  the  shriek  of  the  wind  evoked  a 
thousand  simultaneous  shrieks  from  the  straining  pines. 

The  momentum  was  with  the  Snake  when  he  leaped 
and  Stephen  was  borne  back,  tripped  and  flung  on  the 
ground.  He  was  up  in  an  instant,  writhing,  twisting 
free,  striking;  and  the  Snake  was  with  him.  The  out- 
law fought  like  a  fury  unleashed.  He  was  the  heavier, 
and  in  addition  his  thick  clothing  and  his  weird  hood 
served  him  something  as  an  armor.  He  rushed,  rushed 
recklessly  and  persistently,  well  able  to  suffer  many  blows 
for  the  privilege  of  landing  one.  He  might  have  won 
quickly  had  he  been  fighting 'a  man  of  different  tempera- 
ment, but  Stephen,  after  the  first  wild  clash,  proceeded 
to  grow  calmer — calmer  and  more  cunning.  Even  as 
he  had  stood  off  Carkey  that  day  long  ago  until  the  ex- 
pugilist's  poor  condition  began  to  take  toll  so  now  he 


292  TWISTED  TRAILS 

side-stepped  and  ducked,  covered  and  ran,  jabbed  and 
held  the  Snake  from  doing  much  damage. 

The  Snake  was  as  mad  as  the  storm  which  raged 
about  them;  Stephen  was  as  cool  as  if  they  had  been  in 
the  ring.  The  Snake  was  a  maddened  beast,  lashed  to 
fury  by  rage,  stimulated  to  the  verge  of  insanity  by  the 
lightning  and  wind;  Stephen  was  a  fist  fighter,  able  and 
determined  to  think. 

Now  the  rushes  of  the  Snake  grew  wilder;  now 
Stephen's  defense  became  more  skillful  and  patient.  The 
storm  wreaked  its  swift  fury  and  passed  on  with  the 
suddenness  of  spring  storms  on  the  bayous;  the  dark- 
ness gave  way  to  normal  light  of  day;  and  the  pair 
fought  on. 

The  outlaw  was  cursing  with  futile  rage.  He  roared 
and  screamed  alternately;  the  roar  as  he  threw  himself 
forward,  the  scream  as  straight  blows  drove  him  back. 
Stephen  spoke  once,  when  the  light  returned: 

"Now  we'll  see  what  you  look  like,  Snake." 

He  feinted  for  the  body  and  suddenly  snatched  at  the 
hood.  But  the  Snake  threw  his  arms  over  his  head  in 
a  frenzy.  He  kicked  and  Stephen  leaped  far  back.  The 
Snake  turned  and  ran. 

"Warren!" 

Stephen  stopped  his  pursuit  at  the  sound  of  Carkey's 
wild  call. 

"Warren!  For  God's  sake!  Here  they  come  with 
the  girl!" 

Carkey  was  up  on  one  knee  when  Stephen  reached 
him,  pointing  out  upon  the  lake.  A  tiny  motor  boat 


TWISTED  TRAILS  293 

was  coming  toward  them.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly 
now,  and  Stephen  saw  that  Estella  Reid  was  sitting  in 
the  bow,  looking  anxiously  toward  the  woods. 

From  round  the  point  of  the  woods  where  the  Snake 
had  fled  came  the  roar  of  an  engine,  and  out  from  the 
tangle  of  rushes  and  lily  drift  about  the  point  shot  a  boat 
running  at  furious  speed.  The  Snake  was  crouched  over 
the  steering  wheel,  and  he  steered  straight  for  the  boat 
that  held  Estella  Reid. 

Stephen  was  in  his  own  boat  as  soon  as  possible,  but 
precious  time  was  lost  thrusting  it  free  from  the  beach. 
Before  he  had  swung  round  in  pursuit  the  Snake  had 
covered  half  the  distance  to  the  on-coming  boat. 
Stephen  picked  up*his  rifle  and  fired.  The  bulle*  whizzed 
past  the  Snake's  head  and  he  looked  back.  A  second 
bullet  ripped  up  the  coaming  near  his  hand;  a  third 
bored  a  hole  in  the  stern. 

The  Snake  pulled  on  his  rudder  rope  and  veered  away. 
He  had  given  up  the  attempt  to  reach  the  boat  with  the 
girl,  and  was  intent  upon  escaping.  His  course  was 
laid  for  the  mouth  of  a  narrow  bayou  running  southward 
through  a  cypress  swamp.  Once  in  there  he  would  be 
safe.  Stephen  likewise  shifted  his  course  and  followed. 
Time  after  time  he  filled  the  sights  with  the  Snake's  body 
in  the  instant  that  he  was  squeezing  the  trigger,  but  he 
could  not  quite  do  it.  Each  time  he  shifted  his  aim  a 
trifle  and  sent  his  bullet  tearing  through  the  outlaw's 
boat.  And  suddenly  the  roaring  of  the  Snake's  engine 
died  down  to  a  mere  putter,  then  ceased  entirely.  The 
Snake  stood  up  and  Stephen  heard  his  curses  come  float- 


TWISTED  TRAILS 

ing  over  the  water  as  the  outlaw's  boat  lost  headway  and 
stopped. 

"Punctured  his  gasoline  pipe,  I  guess,"  mused 
Stephen,  and  came  on,  rifle  held  ready. 

The  Snake  stood  for  a  moment  staring  down  at  the 
cockpit  of  his  boat.  He  looked  back  and  saw  that  es- 
cape was  impossible.  A  peal  of  demoniac  laughter  rang 
over  the  bayou  as  the  Snake  wildly  waved  his  hands  at 
the  sky.  Then  he  stooped  over,  struck  a  match  and 
tossed  it  forward.  A  sheet  of  flame  and  the  roar  of  an 
explosion  rewarded  the  gesture.  Through  it  Stephen 
saw  the  outlaw  hurled  into  the  air  amid  a  clutter  of  tim- 
ber from  the  rent  boat. 

The  Snake  was  lying  across  the  forward  part  of  the 
wreck  when  Stephen  steered  up  to  it.  His  clothing  had 
been  torn  to  tatters  by  the  blast  that  killed  him.  His 
hood  in  particular  had  been  effectively  .destroyed ;  and  the 
distorted  face  that  lay  half -submerged  in  the  water  was 
the  face  of  what  had  been  Georges  Martel. 

Stephen  swung  back  out  of  the  cypress  to  Black 
Woods.  The  boat  carrying  Estella  had  landed  round  the 
point,  and  when  he  came  within  sight  of  the  beach  she 
was  at  work  on  Carkey's  wounds.  To  his  amazement 
Stephen  saw  that  she  had  come  prepared  for  just  such 
an  emergency,  having  brought  with  her  the  little  black 
case  which  Doctor  Thibodeaux  carried  when  called  out 
upon  an  accident  at  the  mill  or  the  camps.  Carkey  was 
in  a  bad  way  and  she  was  working  with  a  desperation 
that  gave  no  time  for  interruption  of  any  sort.  Stephen 
leaped  from  his  boat  to  help,  and  they  worked  together, 


TWISTED  TRAILS  295 

speaking  only  when  necessary,  until  the  task  was  done. 

Then  she  turned  upon  him,  her  face  aflame  with  ex- 
citement. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  she  exclaimed. 

"How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?"  he  exclaimed  in 
the  same  instant. 

"You're  not  hurt?  They  said  you  were  hurt?"  she 
cried. 

"Who  said  that?" 

"Jean,  the  boatman." 

Stephen  turned  on  the  man. 

"Who  told  you  I  was  hurt?"  he  demanded. 

"M'sieu  Georges  tol'  me  dat,"  replied  the  Cajun. 

"Georges  Martel?" 

"Yes.  He  say :  'Doctor  Thibodeaux  is  away,  but  tell 
Miss  Reid  M'sieu  Warren  is  hurt  bad  and  beg  her  to 
come.' ' 

"Don^t  you  see  his  game?"  panted  Carkey.  "He 
waited  until  the  doc  was  away.  He  knew  you'd  come, 
Miss  Reid.  He  was  laying  for  you.-" 

"But  where  is  he?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Oh!  That— 
that  wasn't  him  ?" 

"Georges  Martel  was  the  Snake,"  said  Carkey  pain- 
fully. "I  was  in  with  him  on  the  holdup  over  in  the 
oil  fields ;  I  was  lookout  for  him.  I  was  drunk  when  he 
picked  me  up.  After  that  he  had  me.  I  wouldn't  work 
with  him  any  more,  but  I  was  afraid  to  squeal.  I  heard 
he  came  here  to  hide  after  the  race.  I  knew  he  was 
out  to  get  you,  Warren,  and  I  figured  the  best  job  I 
could  do  would  be  to  be  where  I  could  reach  him  and 


296  TWISTED  TRAILS 

stop  it.  That's  why  I  left  camp  the  other  night  and 
joined  him  here.  He  told  me  this  morning  he'd  sent 
Jean  to  Lily  City  after  something,  but  I  didn't  know 
what  it  was.  He — he  was  bad  enough  to  try  anything." 

Stephen  touched  Estella's  arm. 

"Why  did  you  come — when  they  told  you  I  was  hurt?" 
he  whispered.  And  by  the  look  she  gave  him  he  knew 
what  her  answer  would  have  been  had  she  trusted  her- 
self to  speak. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

A  LMOST  I  am  tempted  to  become  an  optimist!" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux's  mahogany-tanned  counte- 
nance fairly  shone  with  gratification.  It  was  spring. 
Not  the  slow,  prim  spring  of  northern  climes,  but  the 
spring  of  the  bayou  country,  which  conies  laughing  up 
from  across  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  with  a  smother  of  trop- 
ical rains  and  warm  suns  intermingled  to  wake  the  land, 
the  waters,  and  the  birds  thereof  to  color  and  song.  Lily 
City  smiled.  From  the  bay  there  came  the  heavy  scent 
of  water  lilies,  and  from  the  trees  the  odor  of  magnolia 
buds,  and  from  the  garden  of  Doctor  Thibodeaux  the 
lazy  spring  breezes  carried  abroad  the  tale  of  a  thou- 
sand rose  bushes  beginning  to  flower.  There  was  a 
spring  song  of  bird  music  always  in  the  air,  and  about 
the  rose-twined  house  the  humming  birds  darted  on 
quivering  wings.  The  sun  that  came  slanting  through 
the  window  into  the  doctor's  office  revealed  that  Doctor 
Thibodeaux's  audience  this  fair  spring  afternoon  con- 
sisted entirely  of  Terry  McGurk. 

"You've  got  to  tell  me  about  it,  doc,  if  I'm  going  to 
understand,"  said  Terry,  reassuring  himself  once  more 
that  the  diamond  horseshoe  was  still  safe  in  his  five-dol- 
lar tie.  "Carkey  told  me  all  about  the  Snake  turning 
out  to  be  Georges  Martel,  but  that's  all  he  knew.  You 

297 


298  TWISTED  TRAILS 

see,  he  beat  it  from  here  as  soon  as  you  got  him  fixed 
up  a  little  and  came  to  me  for  a  stake  to  get  away  on." 
Terry  fingered  his  new  and  expensive  stop-watch  and 
twirled  his  hundred-dollar  panama  anxiously.  "Doc, 
Bomb  ain't  a  bad  fellow." 

"Is  he  not?"  purred  the  doctor.  "Then  I  am  disap- 
pointed; I  hoped  that  Carkey,  at  least,  was  not  a  hypcn 
crite." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  retorted 
Jerry  stoutly,  "but  I'm  here  to  go  to  the  front  for  Carkey 
and  tell  the  world  that  he's  on  the  square.  He  got  in 
wrong  with  the  Snake — I  mean,  "Georges  Martel — when 
he  was  carousing  round,  and  he  went  with  him  on  one 
job,  and  that's  all.  Now  if  I  can  square  him  over  here 
— and  I'm  there  with  the  coin  now,  doc — he's  going  to 
take  charge  of  my  string  and  go  straight.  I  come  over 
here  to  talk  with  the  Big  Fellow  about  it,  but  he  ain't 
round  the  office  and  nobody  seems  to  know  where  he  is; 
so  I've  come  to  you." 

Dr.  Armand  Thibodeaux  blew  three  rings  of  smoke  at 
the  black  gargoyle  on  the  wall. 

"  'The  wicked  flee,'  "  quoth  he,  "  'when  no  man  pur- 
sueth.' " 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Terry. 

"That,  my  gorgeous  Terry,  is  a  line  from  a  book  cred- 
ited to  various  Oriental  scribes  of  some  time  before  you 
were  born." 

"That  ain't  what  I  mean,  doc.     What's  the  idea?" 

The  doctor  stretched  his  short  figure  luxuriously  in 


TWISTED  TRAILS  299 

the  deck  chair.  He  was  in  fine  fettle  this  spring  after- 
noon, was  Doctor  Thibodeaux. 

"Terry,"  he  confided  with  great  earnestness,  "the 
more  I  see  of  man  the  more  I  learn  to  appreciate  jack- 
asses." 

"Jacks?"  snorted  the  boy.     "They  got  no  speed." 

"None  at  all.  That  is  why.  They  have  time  to  grow 
wise.  Man  has  no  time  for  that.  Of  all  the  verte- 
brates he  is  the  only  one  who  has  no  time  to  think.  He 
must  do  something.  The  gods  have  tricked  him  by  giv- 
ing him  energy  beyond  his  intelligence,  beyond  his  con- 
trol. Hence  he  must  keep  busy.  What  a  hideous  phrase 
it  is — keep  busy!  He  must  move,  must  keep  in  motion, 
here,  there,  everywhere — like  a  skitter  bug  on  the  ocean. 
Think?  Not  on  your  life,  as  you  would  put  it,  my  lit- 
tle redhead.  The  jackass,  waving  his  ears  over  a  peck 
of  oats,  perhaps  he  has  time  to  think — but  man — never ! 
It  would  interfere  with  his  colossal  accomplishments. 
Ha!  ha!  Such  noble  accomplishments.  Forgive  me, 
Terry;  I  only  meant  to  say  that  if  your  friend  Carkey 
had  possessed  the  brains  of  a  jackass  he  would  not  have 
permitted  his  guilty  conscience  to  drive  him  to  flight." 

"But  he  was  afraid  it  would  get  out,  doc,  him  being 
with  the  Snake  that  once.  Then  he'd  been  due  for  some 
years  in  the  coop." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  the  doctor,  "if  that  would  have 
harmed  Carkey?" 

"Aw,  doc!"  cried  Terry.  "Don't  turn  him  up;  he's 
a  square  guy.  He " 

"He  was  a  fool  to  run  away,"  blurted  the  doctor. 


300  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"If  he  had  waited  until  the  atmosphere  cleared  he  would 
have  known  that  there  was  no  danger;  that  his  person 
is  as  safe  as  the  reputation  of  Georges  Martel?" 

"What!" 

"I  believe  you  heard  accurately." 

"As  the  reputation  of  Georges — but,  doc,  he  was  the 
Snake!" 

"Who  says  he  was?  Have  you  heard  that  bruited 
round  here?  Have  you  read  it  in  the  papers?  Have 
you  heard  it  anywhere  except  from  Carkey?" 

"No.     No,  I  guess  you're  right,  doc." 

"Do  you  intend  to  go  about  spreading  that  secret? 
If  so,  into  the  prison  goes  your  friend  Carkey." 

"I  ain't — I  won't  say  a  word,  doc.  But  gimme  the 
dope,  gimme  the  dope !" 

"After  all,"  said  Doctor  Thibodeaux  with  a  far-away 
look  in  his  eyes,  "there  is  something  to  be  said  for  breed- 
ing true  to  type." 

"You  betcha.     Only  way  to  get  speed  there  is." 

"Yes.  You  think  in  terms  of  horseflesh,  Terry;  I 
was  thinking  about  men.  Only  breeding  would  have 
given  old  Pierre  Martel  the  pride  to  save  his  family  name 
as  he  did.  Terry,  do  you  know  who  owns  Black  Woods 
now?" 

"Hartland  and  the  Big  Fellow,  don't  they?  Carkey 
said  he  heard  they  was  going  to  buy  it." 

"He  heard  right.  They  did  buy  it.  But  do  vou 
know  who  from?" 

"From  old  man  Martel,  wasn't  it?" 

"From  my  niece,  Estella  Reid!" 


TWISTED  TRAILS  301 

The  doctor  beamed  upon  the  boy  with  the  expression 
of  satisfaction  which  came  to  him  when,  either  by  a 
bizarre  idea  or  startling  fact,  he  had  managed  to  sur- 
prise his  hearer  into  speechlessness. 

"Miss  Reid!"  stammered  Terry.  "When— when  did 
she  get  it?" 

"When  my  sister,  her  mother,  died/'  replied  Doctor 
Thibodeaux  seriously.  He  sat  silent  for  a  long  time, 
his  lips  twitching  suspiciously  above  the  white  imperial 
on  his  chin. 

"You  see,  Terry,  Pierre  Martel  was  Estella's  guardian. 
He  and  Thomas  Reid,  her  father,  were  close  friends. 
There  must  have  been  something  good  in  old  Martel  at 
ohe  time,  at  least.  At  any  rate,  Reid  looked  upon  him 
as  his  best  friend,  a  friend  who  could  be  trusted  to  the 
limit,  even  after  death.  Black  Woods  was  at  one  time 
a  part  of  the  Martel  property.  It  was  that  until  a  few 
weeks  before  Thomas  Reid's  death.  Then  Pierre  Mar- 
tel had  a  horse  beaten  just  as  your  Nailer  beat  The 
Hammer;  and  it  left  him  somewhat  in  the  same  condition 
financially.  He  had  borrowed  from  Reid  till  he  could 
borrow  no  more.  He  must  have  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars.  He  sold  Black  Woods  to  Reid  for  that  amount. 
Then  Reid  fell  sick  and  died,  and  my  sister  soon  fol- 
lowed him.  Martel  became  Estella's  guardian  and — 
kept  the  sale  a  secret.  That  was  why  Georges,  in  the 
character  of  the  Snake,  tried  to  carry  Estella  off  into 
the  swamp  that  day  when  his  fate  overtook  him.  You 
see,  my  little  Terry,  the  Martels  were  in  a  position  where 
it  was  necessary  for  them  to  sell  Black  Woods  again, 


302  TWISTED  TRAILS 

the  woods  they  did  not  own;  a  girl  in  a  cabin  in  Deep 
Swamp  could  be  forced  into  a  marriage,  and  then  she 
could  be  forced  to  sign  papers  as  Estella  Mattel,  and 
— and  yet  we  call  this  a  civilized  world!" 

"But  the  Big  Fellow  stopped  it!"  cried  Terry.  "He 
got  him !" 

"You  need  not  interrupt,"  snapped  the  doctor,  and 
laughed  a  curt  laugh  of  triumph  as  he  came  to  the  part 
of  the  story  that  gave  him  grim  joy. 

"Pierre  Martel  had  to  come  and  beg!  That  is  the 
important  part.  The  proud  Martel  had  to  come  and  beg 
of  a  Thibodeaux.  'The  Snake  is  dead,'  said  I.  'Where 
is  Georges  Martel?'  'He  has  gone  away,'  said  old 
Pierre.  'He  will  never  return.'  He  had  pride,  noth- 
ing left  but  pride.  'Listen,  Thibodeaux,'  said  he,  'there 
are  things  I  can  give  you  in  return  for  the  secret  of  the 
Snake.'  'What  things?'  said  I.  'First,  have  I  your 
promise  that  no  one  will  be  told?'  said  he.  I  made  him 
beg.  Why  not?  He  had  played  the  superior  man  too 
long.  In  the  end  he  gave  me  the  deeds  to  Black  Woods. 
That  is  why  the  reputation  of  Georges  Martel  is  safe, 
and  the  name  of  Martel  is  not  shamed.  So  your  friend 
Carkey  need  have  no  fear.  And,  as  I  said  before,  I, 
Armand  Thibodeaux,  in  spite  of  my  knowledge  of  hu- 
man nature,  almost  am  tempted  to  become  an  optimist." 

"Doc,"  laughed  Terry,  "you  can't  bluff  me  any  longer ; 
you're  four-flushing  when  you  hand  out  those  knocks 
on  human  nature,  and  you  know  it !  I  don't  know  how 
to  say  it,  but — doc,  you're  there  all  round!" 

"Merdl"  said  Thibodeaux  earnestly. 


TWISTED  TRAILS  303 

"And  now  where's  the  Big  Fellow  ?"  demanded  Terry. 

"He  is  a  business  man,  Terry;  his  office  is  the  place 
to  look  for  him.  If  he  is  not  there  now.  wait;  he  will 
surely  come." 

"All  right.  While  I'm  waiting  I'll  hunt  up  Lejeune 
and  slip  him  about  fifty  bucks.  I  promised  him  I'd  feed 
him  up  when  I  got  rich,  and  I've  got  no  hard  feelings 
against  him,  even  if  I  did  lock  him  in  his  own  coop. 
Well,  s'long,  doc,  don't  take  any  bad  nickels,  and — be 
good!" 

Doctor  Thibodeaux  watched  with  an  odd  smile  on  his 
face  while  the  gaudily  dressed  little  figure  swaggered 
down  the  walk  out  of  the  grounds  and  out  of  sight  be- 
neath the  magnolia  trees  that  lined  the  street.  He  waited 
until  Terry  was  quite  out  of  the  way  before  moving. 
Then  he  tiptoed  to  the  rear  of  the  house  to  the  French 
windows  which  opened  upon  the  garden  of  roses  with  the 
pagoda  in  its  middle.  The  pagoda  now  was  fairly  well 
covered  with  the  leaves  and  buds  of  the  rambler  roses 
which  twined  about  it,  but  not  so  well  covered  but  that 
the  afternoon  sun,  slanting  in  through  the  interstices,  en- 
abled the  doctor's  sharp  eyes  to  see  something  of  the  in- 
side of  his  garden  house. 

Estella  was  singing.  Her  audience  was  Stephen,  but 
some  words  of  the  song  came  drifting  out  of  the  pagoda 
to  the  doctor's  ears : 

"Zephine,  the  world  grows  old, 
Come,  let  our  hearts  be  young!" 


304  TWISTED  TRAILS 

"No,  Terry,"  mused  Doctor  Thibodeaux,  as  he  turned 
away,  "you  were  not  the  proper  person  to  interrupt  there. 
Who  has  a  right  to  do  so?  Kings,  savants,  gods?  No! 
Let  the  world  stand  aside.  Let  something  be  sacred — 
Estella ! — My  little  Estella ! — Warren,  I  too  helped  a  little 
to  give  her  happiness." 

In  his  office  he  jerked  the  leering  gargoyle  off  the  wall 
and  hurled  it  out  the  open  door. 

"Solomon,  you  old  fraud !"  he  chuckled.  "I  have  dis- 
covered that  you  lie !"  . 


THE  END 


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